


Your Atlas Complex is Showing

by boy-thighs (sop)



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sop/pseuds/boy-thighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the impressionable age of thirteen, Ethan already knows what he’s going to do for the rest of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Atlas Complex is Showing

**1.**   
  
  
  
He’s flirting with danger, but time’s running out. Abel weighs the pros and cons in his head and settles on a seventy-thirty split, being caught the more likely outcome versus getting away scot-free. He just has to be careful. _Very_ careful. Which shouldn’t be an issue. At all. Probably.  
  
The fluorescent blue light next to his mattress blinks 03:00 and Abel has to rub his eyes to make sure he’s reading the damn numbers right. Where did those five hours go? He was supposed to be asleep by now. But instead he’s swimming in spreadsheets, theoretical charts, and diagrams long enough to wrap himself in. At least five top secret, don’t-show-this-to-anyone-ESPECIALLY-YOUR-FIGHTER-or-you’re-going-straight-out-the-airlock documents snuggle cozily beneath his comforter, which, in all honesty, is where he should be right now.   
  
A pyramid of empty coffee mugs (he promises to return them soon) sits distressingly in the corner. Abel cringes at the sight. The trophy shelf he’s racked up could put any caffeine addict to shame and, really, he is ashamed at just _how much_ he’s drank. Burnt sugar cloys to the roof of his mouth and Abel swears he’s never bringing home another pot from Keeler ever again. There’s sweet and then there’s homicidally saccharine.   
  
Abel’s fingertips vibrate atop the keys, jittery. He’s only got a few pages left to go on this assignment and then he’s done. For good. Until tomorrow, and then it’s lather, rinse, repeat until Tuesday blurs into Wednesday blurs into the rest of his foreseeable future aboard the _Sleipnir_. The laptop quietly hums in agreement. Fuck, he needs sleep if he honestly thinks the laptop was _talking_ to him.   
  
But he’s so close. It’s almost done. No, really, he swears, this is it. Just one more page. As long as he can keep his goddamn hands steady and—  
  
 _”CLICK CLACK CLACK”_.   
  
Shit.   
  
“The fuck’re you doing?” Cain slurs into his pillow, voice low, gravely, and very, _very_ annoyed. His black hair’s mussed up and it’s probably the worst case of bedhead Abel’s ever seen.   
  
Abel swallows thickly, or tries to. All the saliva in his mouth sort of evaporates into thin air and he’s left gaping like a fish out of water. “Work…?” he offers sheepishly, like this is totally normal and he’s capable of running off adrenaline and sheer willpower alone. Who needs sleep?   
  
Cain sits up, one foot flat on the mattress and left leg in a half crisscross, arm draped across his propped knee. The expression on his face right now, a bizarre combination of unhinged wrath and mild insanity, has Abel questioning whether he’s even going to live to see tomorrow. “It’s—“ Cain turns his head to squint at the clock “three fifteen in the fucking morning, Abel.”   
  
Well, he’s not wrong. “I know, I just…Cook asked me to work on this…thing.” Abel waves his hand at the mess surrounding him, papers scattered everywhere and he knows it probably looks like a scene straight out of a 21st century disaster film. At least nuclear fallout might better explain the current state of their room. “I’m almost done, though. I’ll try to type quieter. Sorry.”  
  
Is there something on his face? Because Cain’s definitely looking at him like there’s something on face. Maybe coffee. Or drool. Is he drooling? Abel thumbs his lips nervously.   
  
“Did something upstairs in that big brain of yours snap?” Cain barks. “You’re a fucking mess. Turn off the computer and go to sleep. I’ve got two hours until my training starts and the last thing I need is you slapping away at that stupid fucking keyboard.”   
  
“But—“  
  
Cain’s upper lip quirks, feral. “Turn it off or I’m gonna _rip off_ every fuckin’ key on that laptop,” he threatens and Abel knows that Cain absolutely means it.   
  
He could fight him on this, maybe argue a bit, but if there’s one thing Abel’s learned since moving in together with Cain on the _Sleipnir_ , it’s that Cain really, really hates being woken up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. Unless it’s for…well… _that_. His cheeks burn just thinking about it and he’s not sure if they’re turning red from embarrassment or because his heart’s going to give out any second now. Should it be beating this fast?   
  
Abel reaches for the lid of his computer with an unsteady hand and slowly lowers the screen. Cain, satisfied that he’s gotten his way, grunts in approval before turning back over to lie on his side, facing away from Abel. He shifts a few times, buries himself deeper into the mattress, and then slows his breathing. He’s conked out.   
  
And then Abel waits.   
  
And waits.   
  
And keeps waiting, until that fifteen on the clock turns into a twenty.  
  
Confident that Cain’s not going to get up again, Abel sneakily cracks open the lid and sets the brightness to the dimmest possible setting.   
  
It’s not like he doesn’t want to sleep. He really does. It’s just that this hypothetical engine configuration might actually make a difference. _He_ might make a difference. Abel glances at Cain’s sleeping face and pauses. His expression hasn’t changed much, but Cain looks less enraged and a lot more…more—  
  
“Cute,” Abel mumbles to himself. Wait. What?  
  
A quick slap to the cheeks (and ow, that fucking hurts because Abel’s done this at least fifty times tonight) breaks him out of whatever coffee-addled stupor he’s in. Abel steels himself for another hour’s worth of work. He can do this. He can!   
  
Slowly now.   
  
_”TAP”_  
  
“I fucking knew it.”  
  
“What—“  
  
Either Abel’s hallucinating or Cain really did wake up, scramble over to Abel’s half of the mattress, and rip off the Enter key. All in less than five seconds. And when Abel thinks about it, Cain probably wasn’t even asleep to begin with. That dirty cheat.   
  
“Wait, Cain, I need that! Please just—“  
  
And what happens next has Abel absolutely questioning whether Keeler slipped something besides creamer into his thermos.   
  
Cain grabs the hem of his boxer briefs, peels it back slowly, and drops the plastic key inside, his insane handiwork punctuated with a loud, elastic _snap_. “You want it that bad, princess, go and get it.” This time, there isn’t a scowl. Or any hint of murderous intent. Just a challenging smirk whispering _I dare you_ in the dark of their room.   
  
“Give it back!” Abel croaks and his voice sounds completely strung out.   
  
“That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You heard what I said.” Cain’s tongue clucks and he cocks his head arrogantly. Calloused fingers dance along the edge of his underwear, teasing, dipping ever so slightly beneath the band and Abel stares unapologetically. “You wanna finish your work, fine. But you’re gonna have to fish it out of here first.” The not so subtle squeeze Cain gives his clothed cock makes Abel squirm.   
  
He…he can’t be serious. There’s no way this is real. Abel blinks. And then opens his eyes. Cain’s stupid smug face is still challenging him. His hand hasn’t left his dick yet, either. Fuck.   
  
“Fine,” Abel huffs and he really doesn’t mean to sound like a petulant child when he says it. “You win.”  
  
Cain chuckles lowly. “Always do. Now get over here or the hard drive’s next.”  
  
Abel snuggles closer to Cain and throws the blanket over their bodies. He’s still a little shaky from the caffeine, but Cain’s body heat helps calm him down. “I don’t think you can fit that in your briefs.”  
  
An arm wraps around his chest, Cain’s front pressed close to his back. There’s no escape now. Abel’s all tangled up in a web of Cain’s limbs. His jackrabbit heart slows down to match the steady thump of Cain’s.   
  
“Yeah,” Cain agrees. “It’d be a tight fit with my massive cock in the way.” He ruts his hips forward and Abel nearly jumps off the bed, skin crawling. Cain laughs hoarsely against the back of his neck.   
  
“Just go to sleep,” Abel snaps.  
  
“That’s my line.”  
  
  
  
 **2.**  
  
  
  
When Abel comes to, he’s alone. Cain always leaves earlier than him for training, but this time the screech of his alarm isn’t the only thing in the room to greet him at 05:30.  
  
There’s a crumpled up note on top of Cain’s pillow. The chicken scratch looks distinctively Cain.  
  
 _”Learn to pick up your shit—“_ Bolded. Underlined five times. _”And your coffee taste likes shit. There’s a fresh pot on the dresser. I guarantee it’ll wake your sweet ass up, princess.”_  
  
Abel forces himself into a sitting position and finds all of his scattered papers somewhat organized next to his mattress. They’re definitely not in the right order, but everything’s there. A plastic diagram rests atop the pile. The smudged outline of a footprint smears a few of the sketches. Judging from the crooked position of their dresser, Cain must’ve slipped.  
  
A fresh pot of coffee and a single mug sit side by side, just as promised. Abel pours himself a cup. And sips.   
  
And then gags.   
  
Black. No cream or sugar. The way Abel hates it. And…something else.   
  
Another sip.   
  
Another round of gagging.  
  
“Whiskey,” Abel croaks to a grand audience of no one. Disgusting.  
  
But Cain was right. Sleep’s the last thing on his mind right now. There’s no way Abel can pass out when his body’s running on caffeine and alcohol. A winning combination.  
  
He polishes off his mug (if he pinches his nose hard enough, Abel can barely taste the Johnny Walker…kind of) and drops it in the “sink”—AKA the washbasin Cain filched from medical a few weeks ago. He’d dragged it through the door with all the grace of a cat gifting a dead mouse to its owner, sans the purring. Or any sort of affection. _”Fuck, here. Now quit your goddamn bitching.”_ may be the Cain equivalent of a meow, though. The verdict’s still out.  
  
The six other mugs Abel’d burned through last night sit upside-down on a towel, clean.   
  
Cain did the dishes.   
  
And left another note.  
  
 _”We’re not on Earth, princess. I’m not your fucking maid. You owe me. Tonight. Don’t even think about getting any work done.”_  
  
Abel snorts and twists the corner of his mouth up into a smirk.   
  
He’s about to throw away the message when he catches something scribbled on the back.   
  
_”Speaking of maids, bet that tight ass of yours’d look good in a skirt.”_  
  
Abel shreds the note to pieces.  
  
  
  
 **3.**  
  
  
  
At the impressionable age of thirteen, Ethan already knows what he’s going to do for the rest of his life.   
  
Teenage rebellion, his father diagnoses during an important after-dinner meeting with some big wig from the Capital who’s too nosy for his own good. Ethan’s just not thinking clearly with all the hormones getting in the way. It’s natural for boys his age to act so contrary to their parents. The phase will pass soon enough, _I assure you_.   
  
But it doesn’t. And it won’t.   
  
Ethan hates politics.   
  
Insidious little lies told to A, about B, exploited by C looped ad nauseam in an endless cycle of cutthroat deception. Manufactured empathy, self-serving ideals, the promise to promise absolutely nothing. Ethan watches it all play out like some twisted Shakespearian comedy in his own dining room every Friday night. Unless, of course, he’s dragged out as the closing act, a digerstif for his father’s spoonfed bullshit. It’s always painfully uncomfortable. Ethan’s too young to sit still as the blueprint for his future tears down and rebuilds someone far more capable of stomaching the monstrous acts committed by men. And yet, simultaneously, he’s much too old to pretend that this is all just a game of what if’s and maybe’s. Something is rotten in the House of Harris*.  
  
But that’s not what Ethan wants. That’s not how he’s going to make a difference.   
  
At least, that’s what the brochure tells him.   
  
_Space is the place!_  
  
He’s browsed through it so many times that the cheesy advertisement reads more like a script than a half-assed attempt to recruit fresh blood. Ethan acts out the parts in his head, imagines himself the hero of his own feature film. He’s memorized every last word, right down to the copyright, which is set to expire in three years.   
  
_Only the brightest protect and serve. A Navigator always reaches for the stars!_   
  
“You’re going to be someone very special,” his mother tells him every day with all the love and well-meaning in her heart.  
  
Yeah, Ethan thinks, he will be.   
  
  
  
**4.**  
  
  
  
“But…but what if—“ hiccup “what if next time we tried…”  
  
“Oh! Oh fuck. You serious? You’re such a slut when you’re drunk.”  
  
“Am not!”  
  
“You just asked me to—mmph!”  
  
“Shh. Don’t repeat it!”  
  
“Whyfduhfucknoff?”  
  
“Huh? Ow! You bit my finger!”  
  
“Because you wouldn’t take your fuckin’ hand off! Besides, you like it when I use teeth.”  
  
“Do not…”  
  
“I dunno princess, that blush says otherwise.”  
  
“I’m not blushing! You just gave me too many shots.”  
  
“Not my fault you don’t know how to say ‘no’. This isn’t even the hard stuff. You’re such a lightweight.”  
  
“YOU POURED ME FIVE SHOTS!”  
  
“Yeah? So what? Vodka’s good for you. It’ll help you relax. ‘Sides, I did five right there with you, so quit your bitchin’.”  
  
“Pour me another.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You heard me! Gimme another shot!”  
  
“Heh. All right. One for you. One for me. On the count of three.”  
  
“One.”  
  
“Two.”  
  
“Three!”  
  
“Three!”  
  
“Shit!” Cough. “Fuck, that burns!”  
  
“That’s the best part, sweetheart. Makes your chest all warm and your head light. Sorry it’s too colonial for your pretty Earth ass. How you feelin’?”  
  
“I’m…good. Haha. I feel…really good.”  
  
“Yeah? How good?”  
  
“Like I don’t even care about” hiccup “being called into Cook’s office. It was just one stupid mistake. Fuck him.”  
  
“That’s the spirit! Heh. Knew this’d be good for you. Maybe I should get you wasted more often. Hey! Oof! What’re you—“  
  
“Maybe you should. Feels _really_ good.”  
  
“Didn’t have to push me down to get in my lap, princess. I was gettin’ to that part. Fuck, you know you’re stronger than you look. Are you _trying_ to bruise my wrists?”  
  
“Maybe. Maybe I’m still mad that you bit me. Maybe this is your punishment.”  
  
“Oh yeah? You gonna do something about it?”  
  
“Is that a challenge?”  
  
“Depends. You got the balls to—OW, FUCK! Did you just bite my shoulder?! _Shit_. Do it again.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Fuck yes. Come on. Let it all out.”  
  
“I’m really gonna do it.”  
  
“You better. Or I will.”   
  
  
  
**5.**  
  
  
  
Saturday. Mail day.  
  
Most of the rookies get something or other in their inbox, some of the fighters too—usually from a single parent lamenting the loss of their oldest child, but not Abel. Cain either, for that matter, but Abel’s not counting all the times he checks the computer (zero) or goes out of his way to ask if anyone’s sent him an old-fashioned ink on paper (see previous answer).   
  
Abel spends his free days on the star base reading or studying.   
  
So it comes as a surprise when someone knocks on their door at 14:39 purporting to have an envelope addressed to one Ethan Harris, task name Abel.   
  
Abel signs for the letter and stares at the delivery in his hands. The addressee line is correct, but the “from” heading…  
  
Abel sighs.  
  
Cain stops mid-light and mumbles “Who’s it from, princess? Your prince back on Earth?” around his cigarette. He laughs, but the joke sounds hollow.   
  
There’s a reason he doesn’t look through his inbox. It was only a matter of time, really. Abel’s a little amazed it took them this long to stomach their pride and reach out to him through such “low-class means of communication”. Colonists use paper. Citizens of Earth do not.   
  
He tears open the envelope and takes out the letter, bracing himself for what’s inside.   
  
_Hello, dear.  
  
It’s your mother. We’ve been worried sick about you. I know you’re still mad about what happened months ago, but don’t you think it’s time you came home? It took a while, but I’ve convinced your father to let bygones be bygones and take you back if you promise to board the next shuttle for Earth and just come home. Ethan, please, we miss you. This is where you belong. It’s not too late. You can still get a job at the Governor’s office. Your father even said he’d let you work on starfighters if that’s what you really want. Please, just consider what I’ve said. We love you, very much.   
  
Sincerely,  
Mr. and Mrs. Harris_  
  
Abel’s whole body shakes. They just don’t get it, do they?   
  
Cain frowns from his corner of the room. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” he says.   
  
Abel folds the letter in half and sighs. “Nothing.”  
  
“Nothing, huh?” Cain stands up and snatches the paper between Abel’s two hands.   
  
Abel panics and reaches blindly for his very personal, very _private_ letter. “Cain, please don’t read it!”  
  
But he doesn’t. Cain just flicks open his lighter and catches the corner on fire, letting it smoke for a bit before the flames spread higher. He kicks the metal trash bin over with one foot and dumps the paper inside, letting it crackle and burn until there’s nothing left but ash and embers.   
  
When they’re both done staring at Cain’s handiwork, Cain raises his zippo to his unlit cigarette and flips the wheel. He inhales a long drag, exhales into the vent above them, and says, “You want me to torch the envelope too?”  
  
Abel stares down at the return address scribbled in perfect penmanship.   
  
And then shoves it into Cain’s waiting hand.   
  
  
  
**6.**  
  
  
  
There’s a very short list of things Abel hates. He’s not very good at it. There’s too much work involved for an emotion that only makes you miserable.   
  
Brussels sprouts and apathy take spots two and three respectively.  
  
But Phobos…Phobos somehow manages to worm his way straight to the top. That overbearingly smug attitude of his makes Abel just want to punch the elevator wall over and over again, until he remembers that ramming your fist into several thousand tons of steel and metal might actually produce adverse results.   
  
“The incident” happens after their daily lunch rush.   
  
Keeping schedule on the _Sleipnir_ means shoveling down trays of dehydrated MRE’s and bagged soup faster than you can swallow. Little time for chitchat and catching up.   
  
Abel’s halfway out of the mess hall when he just so happens to accidentally bump into an oblivious Phobos carrying a small bowl filled with what’s supposed to be minestrone. The soup splashes everywhere, not exactly scalding but warm enough to cause discomfort, and stains the front of Phobos’ pristine white jumpsuit. A couple of noodles shellac themselves to his cheeks and chin and all Abel can do is stand there, mortified.   
  
If Phobos were anyone else, Keeler, even Encke, this whole situation might not be as apocalyptic as Abel thinks it’s going to be. But Phobos isn’t Keeler and he’s certainly not Encke. Phobos is pissed and stewing with the kind of uncontrollable rage ancient Greeks waged wars over. Abel forgets about the soup on his pants (if Cain were here he’d probably make some crude comment about a wet stain being near his crotch) and opens his mouth to apologize.  
  
And that’s how he finds himself here, in an empty hallway with Phobos’ elbow crushing his windpipe.   
  
“What is your problem?!” Abel barely chokes out. “It was an accident!” Phobos isn’t as scrawny as he looks. The pressure against Abel’s throat wheezes his words.   
  
“It’s not enough you’re the commander’s favorite, but now you’re just rubbing it in, aren’t you? Why don’t you just piss off Abel? For good this time.” Phobos leans his weight forward for emphasis.   
  
Abel digs blunt nails into Phobos’ arm, trying to elicit some pain so he can break free, but Phobos determinedly drives his elbow further into Abel’s throat. Abel’s vision goes hazy and his lungs spasm with the need to breathe. With one last burst of energy, Abel slams his foot down on Phobos’ and this time Phobos lets go, startled enough to back away momentarily. Abel sucks down gulps of air. His chest burns and the ensuing coughing fit prevents him from retaliating just yet. But Phobos isn’t done. He winds back his arm like a pitcher at the mound and lands a blow to Abel’s jaw, the audible _smack_ deafening in such a quiet space. Abel feels it all the way down to the bone and is at least thankful that he hasn’t lost a molar.   
  
“Pathetic. Can’t even do anything without your damn dog around. You really are his bi—“  
  
Instinct has a way of making you do things you don’t want to. Abel doesn’t realize he’s swung his fist into Phobos’ left eye until the pain in his knuckles settles deep in his joints. His hand shakes uncontrollably. He’s going to get in trouble. He can’t get caught fighting. If Keeler finds out…  
  
Phobos shakily stands up and covers his eye. He’s got the look of a wounded animal, tail tucked between its legs, written all over his face. “Fuck you, Abel,” he grinds through clenched teeth.   
  
“Stay the hell away from me, Phobos. I mean it. You want to prove that you’re better? Do it out there.” Abel gestures toward the window. He’d seem braver if he weren’t trembling with adrenaline.  
  
Phobos drops his hand and Abel can tell from the swelling he got him pretty good. “You better watch your back, asshole, or you’re going to get spaced one of these days.”  
  
“Is that a threat?”   
  
Phobos clicks his tongue and smirks. “An observation. You tell anyone about this and I’ll personally make sure you never see the inside of a starfighter ever again. _That_ is a threat.”  
  
Abel doesn’t have time to question the validity of that statement, but he’s heard a few rumors about Phobos from the other navigators, none of them good. He makes a break for it and sprints down the hall toward the nearest elevator. His jaw stings like hell and the bruise on his throat’s going to be hard to explain. It’s not like anyone wears a scarf on the _Sleipnir_.   
  
His fingers run on autopilot as he fumbles for the access card so he can leave, anywhere preferable to this floor. Or any floor with Phobos on it.  
  
Abel slaps a few numbers on the keypad and somehow ends up in Hangar Bay C.  
  
He can’t go back to the bunk. Cain’s probably there and the last thing he needs is him breathing down his neck about what happened.   
  
He can’t go to medical.   
  
Maybe a few minutes alone on the _Reliant_ might cool his nerves.   
  
There’s a few navigators working on their ships, but it’s mostly empty. If he pretends to scratch his neck he can probably block the choke marks. Abel steps out of the elevator and keeps his head bent, staring down at his feet as he shuffles across the room with conspicuously long strides.   
  
“Abel! What’re you doing here? Thought you navigators were on lunch break.”  
  
Abel peeks through his bangs, but he already knows who’s barking at him. Cain’s covered in grease—probably polish; he’s got a thing for making the _Reliant_ bright and shiny after someone other than him touches their ship—and sweat. It takes about five seconds for his face to shift from opportunistically amused to something darker. He drops the gloves into the cockpit and jumps down from the nose, landing with a loud thud. Abel doesn’t have to guess what Cain’s about to ask. The tumultuous whirl of Cain’s hurricane-like rage swells and surrounds them both.   
  
“Who the fuck did this?” Cain practically snarls as he grips Abel’s chin hard enough to leave another bruise, inspecting the damage done.  
  
“Ow!” Abel whines, slapping Cain’s hand away, not hard enough to actually mean anything. “I’m injured, you know!”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that. And I wanna know who did it. Tell me.” Some people shrill when they’re mad, or scream until their face changes color. And Cain’s not exactly the silent type, but right now, jaw tightened and fists clenched, he’s inhumanly quiet.   
  
Abel almost gives in. He wants to. The way Cain’s staring down at him, pleading almost, hypnotizes Abel into a near submissive state. It’d be so _easy_ to just tell him, let Cain handle everything, and move on. But what kind of person would he be for taking the low road? Even if the low road involves Phobos’ nose broken six different ways from Sunday.   
  
“I can’t,” Abel whispers. “Just…I can’t.”  
  
Cain grunts loudly. The way he’s squeezing his fist looks painful. “Why not?! Was it that fucker Praxis? He touch you? That _mudak_ **. I’m gonna scoop his other eye out with a spoon and shove it down his throat until he chokes.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t! Cain, stop. Listen. Just let it go. If I tell you who did it you’re going to do something incredibly stupid and then you’ll get thrown in the brig. Is that what you want?” His fingers curl around Cain’s bare bicep, squeezing reassuringly. Cain seems to relax to the touch. He’s still drawn tight like a bow, though, all nervous tension and potential energy. “I got into a fight. It was stupid. The other guy looks worse than I do, believe me.”   
  
The rage ripples away slowly. Cain’s muscles ease down and all he’s left with is a scowl and glare that says _I’d do it if you wanted me to_. “Yeah?” Cain grunts, still not entirely convinced.   
  
“I clocked him in the eye. He’ll have a pretty bad shiner by tomorrow.” Abel doesn’t mean to sound proud, but hell, that was his first real fight and he managed to hold his own.   
  
Cain snorts and then chuckles. “Good. Bastard deserves more though.” His fingers fidget near his left pocket and Abel’s pretty sure Cain’s itching for a smoke right about now. “Wanna get outta here?” Cain offers.   
  
Abel nods. “Yeah. Let’s go back.”  
  
The walk to the elevator is silent. Cain doesn’t prod Abel for any more details about what happened, which is good because Abel’s not in the mood. The only thing he wants involves scratchy military sheets and minimal brain function.   
  
Their lift stops too soon and Cain steps out without a word.   
  
“Wait, this isn’t our floor,” Abel comments.   
  
“We’re not going back just yet. C’mon.” Cain walks down the hallway, jacket slung over his shoulder with one hand and the other dug deep in his pocket. “You coming or not?” he shouts when Abel doesn’t immediately follow.  
  
Abel pushes himself out of the elevator and jogs to catch up. “Where are we going?”   
  
“Cargo Bay 5.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I’ll show you when we get there. No need to get your panties in a twist, princess.”  
  
There’s nothing but huge crates and supplies on the main floor, strapped down in case the _Sleipnir_ gets bumpy. Cain strides up the stairs and Abel follows until they’re on the second level, behind a few extra boxes of what looks like canned beans. Kidney to be precise.   
  
Cain dumps his jacket on the floor and fishes for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. With one long drag, all the tension in his body floats away like the smoke Cain exhales through his nose. He settles the stick between his lips and rolls his shoulders back. The sound of knuckles cracking echoes through the hold.  
  
“All right,” Cain starts. He taps his left cheek with a finger. “Hit me right here.”  
  
Abel’s eyes bulge. “Wait. What? Cain what—“  
  
“If you’re not gonna tell me who did it, then you’re at least gonna learn how to throw a real punch. Not that pussified Earth shit they taught you in basic. C’mon, princess. Right here.” Cain takes another drag without even having to touch the cigarette.   
  
“I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
And with that, Cain’s bursting into laughter, clutching his sides as he doubles over, like what Abel’s just said might be the funniest thing in the entire goddamn universe. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I just… _you_ hurting _me_. Wow. That’s a fucking riot.” Cain pauses to wipe a tear from his eye.   
  
Abel frowns. It wasn’t _that_ funny.  
  
“But seriously, sweetheart. Slug one at me. Let’s see if you can actually hit the mark.” Another tap to the cheek. “I’m waiting.”  
  
Abel balls his fists tightly and drops into a fighting stance. He remembers this much from training, but the academy doesn’t hassle themselves with teaching more than just self-defense. Most Navigators don’t even bother taking the course seriously, anyway. Your fists don’t fly a starfighter.   
  
“Okay. Here goes nothing.”   
  
Abel winds up, throws his entire weight into the punch, and then finds himself flat on his back, staring up at Cain’s smug face. It’s almost as impressive as it is painful. Cain snorts in amusement. He takes another drag and exhales right into Abel’s shocked expression. Abel chokes on the smoke as he fans it away from his nostrils.  
  
“You’ve got a lot of work cut out for you, princess,” Cain admonishes.   
  
And now Abel’s the one scowling. “Again.” He scrambles ungracefully to his feet. “Let’s try it again.”  
  
“You sure about that? I’m not gonna go easy on you.” Sometimes Cain likes to make unthreatening threats, the kind that goad Abel on without any real bite. Right now, Abel knows he’s playing into Cain’s hand, but maybe this isn’t the worst idea after all.   
  
“I never asked you to.” Abel throws his fists up once more.   
  
“Heh. All right.” Cain leans back against one of the boxes and smirks. “Give it another shot.”  
  
Later, when they’re back in their bunk and curled on top of their twin mattresses, post-coital and bruised all over (Abel’s never going to let Cain forget how he caught him off guard and slugged him right in the gut, albeit by accident, but still), Abel wonders whether or not Cain did any of that on purpose. He glances over his shoulder and watches as Cain moves to light another cigarette. If he weren’t so sore, Abel might yell at him to turn up the vents, but he just can’t bring himself to care right now.  
  
“Thanks,” Abel mumbles into the darkness.   
  
The light of Cain’s cigarette washes their skin in a dull orange.   
  
“For what?” Cain says around the stick in his mouth.  
  
“Letting me blow off some steam. I needed it.” Rolling onto his side hurts like a bitch, but Abel’s feeling particularly sentimental tonight.  
  
Cain doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just stares down at Abel with wide eyes. “You know,” he starts after a few seconds of silence, “if you really wanted to thank me, there’s something else you could blow.” Cain casually points to his dick.   
  
Abel frowns. “You just had to ruin it.”  
  
“Like how I ruined your ass ten minutes—hey!”  
  
Death delivered via a pillow to the face seems like such a tragic way to go.  
  
(And that last hit totally counts.  
  
 **Cain** : 0  
 **Abel** : 2)  
  
  
  
 **7.**  
  
  
  
The next time they’re in the mess hall, Cain stops inhaling what’s supposed to be Swedish meatballs when he spots Phobos and Porthos walking in together. It takes him a few minutes longer than the average bear to figure out that Phobos is currently sporting an unfashionably large eye patch and then the wheels start turning. Slowly.   
  
Abel’s already three steps ahead and grabs Cain’s arm to hold him in place.   
  
That doesn’t stop Cain from wolf whistling at Phobos from across the room, grabbing a plastic knife off the table, and dragging it across his throat with just enough pressure to nick the skin. He licks his front teeth and flashes Phobos a wicked smile, canines on display.  
  
The sheer terror on Phobos’ face almost makes the pain worth it.  
  
“You saw that?” Cain crows as he lightly jabs Abel in the side with a pointy elbow.  
  
“Ow…” Abel hisses because Cain just rammed into one of his bruises.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Almost.  
  
  
  
 **8.**  
  
  
  
During their debriefing, when they first joined the _Sleipnir_ , Keeler had gone over a few basics that most, if not all, of them had been drilled on even before setting foot near a ship. Some of the more obvious rules—no fighting, punctuality, please try and do your best!—were a given. And then there were some unspoken ones, rules almost everyone knew how to follow without being verbally told to because it’s just common sense not to leave trash on the ground or come to work with snot dripping down your face like a leaky faucet.   
  
Apparently Abel didn’t get that memo during his genetic resequencing because he’s the only one on the bridge currently sneezing on every touchscreen within a ten-foot radius.   
  
Keeler walks by during a particularly loud “ACHOO!”.   
  
“Abel,” he chides and it’s that same tone Abel’s mother used when he’d poke and prod his broccoli instead of eat it. “You should go to medical. You’ve been coughing and sneezing all day.”  
  
There’s enough congestion in his head to delay that sentence for a good three seconds before Abel replies. “It’s nothing, really, sir. I’m fine.”  
  
“ _Abel_.” Keeler drops a hand from his datapad to grip Abel’s shoulder like a vice, just hard enough to drag Abel’s eyes away from the screen. “I _really_ think you should go see the MO.” Keeler has two smiles. Smile A—reassuring and sweet. Smile B—understanding and concerned. Abel might need to create a separate category for what he thinks is Keeler’s secret Smile C—I’m not going to tell you twice, now get the hell off my bridge.  
  
“O-okay.” Abel hastily shuts down his terminal and leaves with a perfectly timed sneeze punctuating his departure.   
  
The MO doesn’t tell him anything new.   
  
“It’s a cold,” he says rather flatly, annoyed that Abel waited this long to come in for treatment. Who knows how many other people he’s infected by now? That was beyond irresponsible, young man, and you should know better. Honestly, don’t you understand how easy it is to spread germs? Simply washing your hands and hoping for the best isn’t going to get rid of your disease. Now the whole ship’s been exposed!  
  
Abel sheepishly rubs the back of his neck as he grabs the medicine and bolts for the door before the MO can show him a very detailed diagram of what your lungs look like during the final stages of tuberculosis.   
  
He takes Keeler’s advice and grabs every last jacket he can—a grand total of two—and wraps himself up in a cotton burrito. And, somehow, Abel’s still cold.   
  
Hot. Then cold. Then back to hot again.   
  
By the time the medicine starts to kick in, Abel’s pretzeled himself into the sheets with one arm inside his jacket and the other hanging off the mattress.   
  
The stuffiness clogs every orifice of his head and Abel finds it difficult to breathe through his nose so he opts for the disgusting mouth-breathing method.   
  
It doesn’t take much longer before the deadly combination of intense chest cold and medication causes Abel to pass out.   
  
When Abel finally comes to, probably hours from previous consciousness, he’s not alone.   
  
His head’s still swimming and the congestion hasn’t gone away. Maybe he’s actually experiencing a rare strain of the common cold. The kind that ends in becoming an actual pile of mucus by week two. Abel hacks up a lung and forces himself into a sitting position.   
  
“You look like shit,” Cain announces from the corner. He’s sitting in a chair reading something important. Or looking at porn. Either option a possibility.   
  
Abel clears his throat to speak. “I feel like shit,” he rasps.   
  
“Hungry?”   
  
He might be, but Abel’s not really sure if he’ll be able to taste anything. “I guess,” he replies, then sniffles.   
  
Cain cocks his head to the dresser. There’s a bowl and a spoon sitting on top. “I’m finished. You can have some if you want.”   
  
Abel rubs his eyes and, yeah, there’s a bowl of what looks like chicken noodle soup on top of their dresser. If Cain really did eat some, Abel finds it impossible to tell. The spoon seems untouched and the bowl undisturbed. Usually Cain wraps his lips around the rim and just downs it like that, forgoing any semblance of etiquette for practicality. But that’s not the case here.   
  
“You gonna stare at it or eat it?” Cain quips.  
  
Muscles still weak, Abel tries to get up on his own two feet. His legs quiver like a newborn foal and the dizziness offsets his balance, forcing Abel to land right back down on his ass with a pillow-soft _plop_. “Ugh,” he groans, but the noise dies halfway in his throat.  
  
An overly dramatic sigh echoes from the corner. Cain drops the datapad on the chair and strides over to the dresser. He picks up the soup bowl, crouches down to eye level, and scoops some chicken noodle out to Abel, holding the spoon close to his mouth. “Eat,” he says.  
  
Do colds usually cause hallucinations? Or maybe he’s still asleep and this is some weird domestic daydream he’s suckered himself into believing because Abel doesn’t buy it for a second that Cain’s squatting in front of him with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. And that he’s offering to feed him. Maybe the MO drugged him.   
  
“Helloooo? Anyone home? My arm’s cramping.”   
  
Cain aggressively prods the spoon against Abel’s lips and, yes, this is in fact reality, somehow. Abel cautiously opens his mouth and lets the metal slide against his tongue. He can’t taste any of the flavors at all (which might actually be a good thing because nothing on board this ship tastes any good—except for the coffee), but the warm liquid helps combat the stuffiness. Abel swallows the first bite and waits for the second.   
  
“Is it helping?” Cain asks after bite number six.  
  
Abel nods weakly. “Sort of.”  
  
Cain swirls the spoon around and looks for a good chicken to carrot ratio before offering more. “It’s supposed to help you when you’re sick. Chicken noodle soup. That’s what you Earthers believe anyway. Us colony kids just puked our guts up and never whined about it.”  
  
“Why’d you get this if you’re not sick then?” Abel asks.  
  
Cain doesn’t answer, just stirs the soup a few more times before declaring, “sick people shouldn’t talk” and then ends the conversation with Abel’s mouth stuffed full of noodles.   
  
  
  
**9.**  
  
  
  
Back at the academy they teach you the four key fundamentals to being a good navigator.   
  
1\. Be aware of your surroundings and keep your eyes on the screen at all times.  
  
2\. Trust your fighter.   
  
3\. Focus. _Focus_.   
  
4\. And don’t forget to breathe.  
  
Sometimes Abel forgets that last part.  
  
  
  
 **10.**  
  
  
  
Cook calls him in for an important discussion some three days after arriving on the _Sleipnir_.   
  
He’s to be put on a special assignment involving new engine parameters they want installed on the _Reliant_.   
  
“This is absolutely top secret. Is that understood?” Cook repeats, hands clasped tightly behind his back. There’s a glare on his lenses, but Abel can tell that Cook’s boring invisible holes into him with how hard he’s staring, as if attempting to convey just how important this mission is through sheer intimidation.   
  
Abel nods firmly. “Yes, sir. Understood.”   
  
He’s never been in a position like this before.   
  
Sure there’d been mock scenarios involving impossible situations (You are adrift in space, your ship is dead in the water, and three Colteron starfighters are headed your way. How would you safely get you and your fighter back to the nearest star base? You have one hour to answer the question) and spontaneous pop quizzes on how to completely strip and rewire a starfighter from scratch, but nothing this heavy. If he closes his eyes, Abel can trace the _Reliant_ ’s circuitry like river channels on a map. He can—theoretically—pull her apart right down to the bare bones and piece her back together without a single button misplaced. Glue part a into tab b, wait one hour, then paint. The basics remain the same even though Abel’s working with live wires and metal now and not small pieces of plastic. Still, looking over the schematics itches the insides of Abel’s palms with nervousness. There are parts here he’s never seen before, configurations that would spin any seasoned engineer’s head, and he’s supposed to do it all in two weeks—  
  
“Abel.”  
  
He nearly fumbles the datapad. “Y-yes?”  
  
“I asked if you could handle this,” Cook repeats, slower. “You can’t tell anyone about this. Only a handful of individuals know about our project and I can’t risk that information leaking out.” He takes three steps forward and places a large hand on Abel’s shoulder, squeezing it with what’s supposed to be reassurance, but comes across as clinical. “Can I trust you?”  
  
This is it, right? The part where the main character has to do something dangerous in order to save humanity, as we know it. Outwit the bad guys, take down the boss, come back home a big damn hero. The film in his head always ends happily ever after.  
  
Except when it doesn’t.   
  
“Are you up to it?”  
  
Headless and disoriented. Like a statue sinking to the bottom of a deep pool. Anxiety gurgles up, up, up to the top, little bubbles of apprehension bursting against the surface. The insurmountable pressure crushes his ribcage, stealing his breath, and Abel’s not sure if he’s really capable of doing this. Any of it. Keeler’s a better navigator, by the book and efficient. If anyone deserves recognition, it’s him.   
  
But Abel _wants_.  
  
And so he takes.  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Cook flashes a sly grin. “Excellent. I look forward to seeing your progress.”  
  
Abel’s not drowning, not by a long shot.   
  
This is self-imposed madness.   
  
  
  
**11.**  
  
  
  
Once, during Ethan’s junior year of high school, he’d almost failed a test.   
  
His father had forced him to take some stupid anatomy and physiology course to help “round out” his academic profile.   
  
“It’ll look good,” he’d said over breakfast as Ethan ticked the boxes of all the pre-approved extracurricular activities and core classes. “Employers like that sort of thing. Variety.” Like how he’d been forced to study violin throughout his elementary and middle school years. “A modern renaissance man.”  
  
So he’d plunked himself down into a desk and took pages upon pages of notes about muscles, tissues, and bones. He could talk about the in’s and out’s of the endocrine system or recite the process of ketogenesis by heart, but Ethan hated every moment of it. Nothing stuck.   
  
Except for that one lesson about the spine.   
  
Ethan remembered it better than the others because there was something intriguing about how each disc sort of slipped into place, perfectly aligned and interlocked like collagenic pieces in an organic puzzle. His professor started from the bottom and worked upwards, detailing the function of each bone until finally arriving at their final destination: the C1 vertebra. Atlas. Wider than the others with one very important function.  
  
“The two transverse processes almost look like hands supporting the skull,” she’d clarified as the screen changed. Ethan made sure to note that on his tablet. “It’s irregular in shape and purpose compared to the others.”  
  
The test was easy enough. Mostly fill–in-the-blank questions with five short answers on page three. The essay portion, predictably, asked which vertebrae were essential in supporting the skull’s weight.  
  
Ethan started off with some purple prose briefly describing the history of its name, tied in the vertebra’s titanic origins, then progressed toward answering the actual question. Ethan turned in his test before everyone else, per usual, and then waited for the results.   
  
65%  
  
The score had felt like a punch to the gut. He’d flipped through the document. All of his answers were correct, except for the essay, which had accounted for more than half of his grade.   
  
_You only got half of the problem right!_ his teacher had written in the margins. _Make sure to read the whole question first before answering next time!_. Partial credit. That’s all she could give him.   
  
Ethan had closed the window on his tablet without ever stopping to check what the correct answer was.   
  
Two weeks later he’d dropped the class before the grade could negatively impact his scores.   
  
“We’ll figure something out,” his mother had said as she’d helped Ethan keep the decision a secret from his father. “You can’t be good at everything.”   
  
He _could_. He _would_. Just not this time.  
  
Three weeks passed after that first taste of failure and Ethan never found out which half he was missing.   
  
  
  
**12.**  
  
  
  
“Okay, try it now!” Abel shouts from the nose of the ship, legs on either side as he straddles the hull. Bare arms covered in oil (his tank top’s not any better and Abel doubts he’ll ever get the stains out 100%) and hair grimy, the textbook definition of a greasemonkey. Abel loves it, though. Back on Earth he used to do this for fun, but at least now he’s getting paid. He toys with the edges of his gloves and itches to take them off; his hands are sweaty and the rubber chafes his skin.   
  
Cain sits in Abel’s navigator chair and pushes the button Abel showed him, following the directions exactly.   
  
The _Reliant_ starts up like normal, engine humming loudly in the hangar bay, and Abel holds his breath, waiting for the all clear.   
  
Everything’s within acceptable parameters. Life support, navigation, weapons, internal temperature…no, wait.   
  
The thermometer on Abel’s tablet continues to climb, higher and higher until he can feel the starfighter overheating between his legs. The new engine he installed isn’t meshing as harmoniously as previously thought. Abel scrambles to forcibly shut down the pre-launch sequence, but he’s too late. No amount of button mashing can stop this beast.  
  
The _Reliant_ rattles violently against its supports.   
  
“ABEL!” Cain yells from inside the ship. “THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!”  
  
Abel doesn’t get a chance to answer that question because the loud gunshot-like bang does it for him. A small metal cap shoots off the hull and Abel ducks instinctively to avoid losing an eye. It ricochets for a few minutes, sending everyone else into a panicky, jittery mess, before the momentum finally dies. The pressure inside must’ve been too much for the _Reliant_ to handle. Everything’s overheated. The ship goes into emergency power down mode and then it’s eerily silent.  
  
Cain pops his head out of the cockpit. “ARE YOU INSANE?! THE WHOLE DAMN THING ALMOST BLEW UP, ABEL! YOU SAID YOU HAD THIS.”  
  
Abel wants to take Cain’s justifiable anger seriously. He really does. But the look on his face kills all intent of sincerity. Cain’s eyes are bulging from their sockets and his brows are quirked in every which direction. His hair looks fried and the way he’s gripping the back of his seat reminds Abel of those older ladies on the hover rail who pointlessly shake and quiver at each minuscule bump. If Abel didn’t know any better, he would’ve guessed Cain had spotted a ghost considering how unnaturally pale his skin looks. The thin sheen of sweat only adds to the picture.   
  
Abel loses it and bursts into laughter.   
  
“HEY!” Cain half growls, half shouts. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY! YOU COULD’VE KILLED ME, YOU LITTLE SHIT!”  
  
Abel just snort-laughs some more, doubling over until he’s wheezing. His face and eyes burn and Abel’s pretty sure he’s flushed redder than a tomato right now.   
  
Cain’s scowl deepens, and then softens when Abel starts to cry from laughing too hard. “You’re so fucking weird,” Cain grumbles as he smooths down his hair. There’s color on his face again, but his nerves look shot.   
  
“Sorry. You…you just…I’ve never seen you look so scared before,” Abel manages through a few giggles.   
  
Cain wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, still sweating bullets. “I didn’t think my navigator was trying to kill me!”  
  
“I promise it won’t happen again. I just…miscalculated something.”  
  
“Miscalculated?! You almost blew up the damn ship!”  
  
“Almost,” Abel repeats. “That’s the key word here.  
  
Cain mutters something in Russian under his breath, probably a few choice words Abel’s mother would blush at if she could understand. “You better fix her,” he threatens. “I swear if we go out there fighting those ‘terons and another gasket blows, I’m going to climb back there myself and throw you out the hatch!”  
  
Abel wipes the tears from his eyes and tries to calm down. “Okay, okay. Let’s just try it again.”  
  
Cain pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales loudly. “Fine.”  
  
This time Abel makes sure to double-check all of the readings before he has Cain begin the launch sequence again.   
  
The _Reliant_ starts off strong, engines coming online, temperature readings normal, and life support fully functional. Abel’s confident this time that it’ll work out. The readings he’s getting concerning the new engine schematic installed look incredibly promising and he’ll have to show Cook when they’re done.   
  
“Okay, try it again!” Abel shouts between cupped hands.   
  
The ship hums loudly as the new engine assimilates with the rest of the tech. Abel watches the readings skyrocket and his heart leaps with excitement. This is unbelievable. Can they really—  
  
 _”EMERGENCY POWER ACTIVATED”_  
  
And then everything’s dark. The auxiliary lights flicker on as the hangar bay loses main power. Annoyed shouting replaces the silence, a mini uprising on their hands.  
  
“ _BLYAT_!” Cain screams from inside the _Reliant_.  
  
So maybe “borrowing” power from the hangar’s generators wasn’t such a good idea after all.   
  
Oops.   
  
  
  
**13.**  
  
  
  
Praxis stares.   
  
A lot.   
  
More than he probably should.   
  
Sometimes it’s subtle, a sidelong glance or peek from the corner of Praxis’ good eye. Long-distance and impersonal, like their occasional nods of acknowledgement in the mornings. Lately, though, Praxis looks at him like how his father used to when Abel’d come home with yet another frivolous hobby or friend. Judgmental and disapproving.   
  
But Praxis is not Abel’s father—they’re hardly friends as it is.  
  
Which is why Abel’s more than a little annoyed that he’s being dragged toward the Observatory during the beginning of his lunch break instead of chatting with Ethos about Colteron phonemes (not that Abel finds any of Ethos’ linguistic breakthroughs particularly interesting).  
  
Praxis grips Abel’s wrist like a man desperate to hold on as the sand slips between his fingers, pooling beneath their feet until every last grain hits the floor—time’s up.  
  
“He’s not good enough for you,” Praxis hisses, quiet and emphatic, the tone of his voice accelerating Abel’s pulse. “You could do so much better.” His grasp tightens and Abel can feel his own blood rushing beneath Praxis’ burrowing fingers, thrumming with unease. “There are better fighters out there. Fighters who…” Praxis pleads with him, distressed, the flush of his cheeks screaming _this is all or nothing_.  
  
Doubled down, he bets it all on the turn.   
  
And loses at the river.  
  
Praxis never was very good at reading the obvious.   
  
As Abel rips his arm away and makes for the elevator, he can hear Praxis shout, “he’d let you sink! If it came to that. You and him stuck out there. Cain only cares about himself.”  
  
Then it’s a very good thing, Abel thinks, that he learned how to swim.   
  
  
  
**14.**  
  
  
  
“You don’t get it, do you?”  
  
If Abel had a credit for every time Cain pushed him up against a wall for being “a smart-mouth Earther bitch” Abel’d be—well, he pretty much has that second part covered anyway.   
  
Cain holds the front of Abel’s jumpsuit between his fingers and scowls down at him, all canines and snarls. “You’re my backseat bitch. I’m the one calling the shots. _Me_. You better fuckin’ get that through your head, princess, or you’re in for a rough year.”   
  
Even during VR practice, Cain leads. Or tries to. Abel doesn’t play second string very well.  
  
The simulated mission for the day involved a search and rescue operation somewhere deep in Colteron space, exact location unknown. There were three crucial components to success: 1) find the lost Alliance starfighter 2) make contact with said starfighter and assess whether or not retrieval is possible 3) make it back to base undetected. They managed to fail all three components in under five minutes, a new record. Cain thought the ship was unsalvageable even though life signs were clearly present, and Abel fought tooth and nail to get the line launched, hooking both their ships together so that the _Reliant_ could act more like an interstellar tugboat than a starfighter. A good thirty seconds of arguing later—mostly yelling; Cain’s voice echoes in that tiny capsule—and the Colterons were hot on their tail because of Cain’s brilliant idea to fire off some rounds as a big “fuck you Abel and fuck this fucking ship”. A paragon of maturity. Some pathetic flying followed suit with even more pathetic aim and they were completely obliterated, scrapped beyond recognition. It wasn’t until the screen flashed FAIL did Cain drag Abel out of the machine to land them in their current situation.  
  
“You’re such a prick,” Abel spits, shoving Cain away from him. “Maybe if you weren’t such an asshole we would have passed!”  
  
Cain’s upper lip twitches. “Why d’you think I’m the best goddamn fighter on this ship, huh?” He takes a step closer, shrinking the distance between them. Cain’s so close Abel can feel his labored breaths against his cheek. “Because I know when to quit. I know when to cut my losses and let go. And I’m sure as hell not going to die out there because of you and your fucking bleeding heart. So you better wise up, princess, and learn a thing or two before _our_ asses end up simulated.”  
  
Abel swallows down whatever witty remark he had coming and shoves his way past Cain, heading for the lab.   
  
Life on the star base hasn’t played out the way Abel thought it would. Fewer heroics and infinitely more headaches.   
  
And his fighter…  
  
Cain’s not exactly the poster child for humanity’s last hope.   
  
It’s only been a few days since they’ve been paired together, but Abel feels like he’s already compounded a lifetime’s worth of problems.   
  
For one, Cain hates teamwork. And for another, he hates practice. Throw in an allergy to a basic understanding of human communication, and Abel’s flying solo through most of their scheduled “training sessions”. Which is perfectly fine by him if that’s how Cain wants to be. Abel’s always been better off on his own.  
  
A couple days after their incident in the VR capsule, Abel finds himself in yet another argument. This time over something so asinine he couldn’t tell you why or how it started, just that the end result involved a shattered lamp and a record-breaking use of the word “fuck”.   
  
It started after they’d fucked—it always starts after they fuck—when Abel’d pulled himself out from between the sheets and Cain’s firm embrace to find his jacket and a somewhat clean pair of pants.   
  
Cain had followed, dragging his bare feet across the cold metal floor, interrogating Abel about where he’d be going at _this fucking hour when your ass could help keep the bed warm_ , occasionally mumbling something about forgetting his place and an unintelligible _mine_ may have slipped under his breath. Abel had evaded Cain’s question because, honestly, fuck him, Cain’s not his keeper. And maybe he had said that part out loud. “Accidentally”.   
  
A shouting/shoving match, followed by some loud banging against the wall—their neighbors, maybe both of them—and Abel’s lower back falling against the corner of his nightstand. That’s how the lamp broke.   
  
Abel remembers it all now as he rubs the bruise forming on his lower spine.   
  
Work helps take his mind off the pain.   
  
He’s hauled up in the lab again, helping Ethos run some algorithms.   
  
“Fighter trouble?” Ethos prods as he tries another sequence. There’re still a few transmissions left to decode.  
  
Abel rubs his tired eyes. “Huh? Kind of. Yeah. A little.” Four in the morning is not when Abel is most articulate.   
  
Ethos smiles one of his floppy grins that always gets Abel to do the same. “I can relate,” he admits as the computer flashes another error message. “Sometimes I come here when I get bored. Praxis doesn’t sleep in the bunk all that much so it gets kind of lonely with just me and my thoughts.”   
  
Ethos’ sad laugh that follows coils Abel’s heart. “I was wondering what you were doing up so late. Guess we’re in the same boat, huh?”  
  
“Yup!” Ethos hums in agreement. “Well, I mean literally we are. In the same boat. We both live on the base together.”  
  
Ethos’ humor, though…that’s something Abel never hopes to pick up. “That was terrible,” Abel deadpans.  
  
A beat.   
  
And then they’re both doubled over in laughter.   
  
“Y-yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” Ethos giggles. “My mom always told me not to quit my day job.”  
  
“She might be on to something.”  
  
“Hey, are you saying my jokes are bad?” Ethos jabs.   
  
Abel smirks. “I’m just saying your translations are better.”  
  
“Yeah. I’m pretty good with languages. Like how you’re really good with engines. Way better than me, at least. They’re kind of similar though, don’t you think?”  
  
“How do you figure that?” Abel asks, genuinely curious. This is the most he’s ever spoken to Ethos and Abel wonders why they haven’t done all of this before.   
  
Ethos collects his thoughts and then says, “they’re both kind of like puzzles. You’ve got to figure out which pieces go together to complete the big picture. You do that with machine parts and I do that with words. Or what I think are words. I’m still not fluent in Colteron. They make a lot of weird sounds…and smells.”  
  
They stay in the lab for another hour before someone checks on the room and kicks them out.   
  
Abel dreads having to go back, but there’s really nowhere else—  
  
“Hey,” Ethos interrupts, eyes lit up like he’s just opened the best Christmas present of all time, “wanna sleep over?”   
  
Abel briefly wonders whether he’s back in middle school begging his parents to let him stay over at Nolan Augustine’s birthday bash extravaganza. “I…okay.”  
  
“Great!” Ethos practically glows, unable to contain the excitement. “You can sleep in Praxis’ bed. He won’t mind.”  
  
Ethos keys open the door when they finally reach their section of the habitation ring. The room is completely empty and Praxis’ bed untouched, like he’s never even slept in it before. Abel quietly toes off his boots and unzips his jacket until he’s down to just his shirt and pants. He’s definitely not going back to get some pajamas, so this’ll have to do until morning.  
  
Ethos shyly changes in the bathroom and then comes back looking giddier than a schoolgirl at a slumber party playing Never Have I Ever.   
  
They chat for a little longer, Ethos rambling on and on about his life back on Earth and his time at the academy until he starts to get sleepy, exhaustion cutting Ethos’ story about confusing the fighter and navigator chairs during his first simulation short.   
  
Abel buries himself into the pillows, rubs his nose against the clean sheets until he’s inhaling a mixture of military grade laundry detergent and sandalwood. Aftershave, he thinks. That’s the second smell. So different from Cain’s—and now Abel’s—bed, which reeks of Cain’s natural scent and sex.   
  
Abel falls asleep dreaming the same dream he’s had since he was six years old, but imagines instead someone else opposite him.   
  
When he wakes up, it’s barely seven in the morning.  
  
Abel dresses quietly because Ethos is still passed out in the bed next to his, snoring softly into his arm.   
  
He makes his way to the lift and keys in his floor, then leans against the wall, shoulders sagging from invisible weights. He’s exhausted in ways sleep can’t fix.  
  
When Abel makes it back to his room, there’s no one there. Thankfully. Cain must’ve left to go do something (someone?) else. Abel tries not to think about it too hard because it _hurts_ and he can’t explain why.  
  
While he shucks off his clothes (just a few more minutes of sleep, then he promises to get up), it takes him a full sixty seconds to notice that something’s different. The shards scattered across the floor are gone, cleaned up or maybe just shoved underneath his bed, and there’s a new lamp sitting on his nightstand, metallic and bright. Cain must’ve swiped it from someone else’s room.  
  
This doesn’t change anything, though.   
  
Cain’s still an asshole.  
  
And Abel’s still dreaming in monochrome.  
  
(Later, when Abel’s half-asleep and curled into their well-worn mattress, Cain slips back in without saying a word. He drops his clothes near Abel’s and spoons himself around Abel’s back, pressing the warmth of his skin into Abel’s cold flesh. He stinks of cigarettes and whiskey and sweat, and something else indefinable that Abel will eventually learn to categorize as regret. Abel lets Cain bury his face into the crook of his neck and remembers to forget the mistakes of yesterday, today, tomorrow and from now on.)   
  
  
  
**15.**  
  
  
  
So…maybe your life doesn’t play out like a movie.  
  
So what?  
  
You were never meant to be the lead, anyway.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Scratch that.   
  
You were never meant to lead _alone_.  
  
And that’s okay.  
  
More than okay.  
  
  
  
 **16.**  
  
  
  
“No one’s gonna catch us, just hurry up and get over here!”  
  
Abel scrambles out of the capsule and then slides into Cain’s side, his two legs straddling Cain’s waist until they’re uncomfortably squeezed onto one chair. This is an absolutely horrendous idea. And of course it was Cain’s.   
  
“See?” Cain laughs as his hands settle on Abel’s hips. “No one saw. So stop pissing yourself and live a little, princess.”  
  
“I’m not pissing myself,” Abel retorts, brows knitting together indignantly. “I’m just not a complete— _ah_!”  
  
Cain squeezes Abel’s ass to shut him up. “You talk too much. There’s better uses for that pretty mouth of yours.”  
  
Like kissing. Hot, wet, somewhat sloppy kissing. That’s what Abel deduces with his superior intellect when Cain presses his mouth to Abel’s, artlessly shoving his tongue inside. Cain drags his teeth against Abel’s bottom lip and tugs, chewing on the slightly raised scar tissue. Abel’s ruts his hips against Cain’s and grinds down in small circles until he can feel the head of his cock straining against the front of his pants. It’s a little embarrassing how fast he’s gotten himself worked up, but the thrill of being caught plus Cain’s wandering hands groping his ass kind of help explain Abel’s situation.   
  
“You like that, baby?” Cain whispers into Abel’s open mouth, sucking Abel’s tongue back into his.   
  
The unsophisticated _guh_ that tumbles past Abel’s lips answers that question.   
  
Cain slowly drags a hand upwards and threads gloved fingers through Abel’s hair, lightly yanking blonde strands until Abel’s a needy mess in his lap, moaning so loud his chest reverberates against Cain’s. Abel pulls back to let out a deep groan when Cain starts rubbing the cleft of Abel’s clothed ass, pressing lightly against his hole so that there’s just the smallest bit of pressure to drive Abel wild. He wants Cain’s fingers. So bad. Hasn’t felt them in days because of their conflicting schedules. His own don’t feel nearly as good, don’t reach far enough either. Abel pushes back against Cain’s hand and practically whines when Cain pulls away just to be a cocktease. He’s getting off on this, that bastard.   
  
“What?” Cain chuckles. “Want more?”  
  
Abel doesn’t have the guts to admit it, so he does the next best thing. He grabs Cain’s hand, rips off the glove, and brings Cain’s fingers to his mouth, wrapping his lips and tongue around two of them until he’s slicking them with spit. Abel makes a show of it, occasionally looking up to watch Cain’s face shift from smug to shocked. Obscenely wet slurps followed by eager sighs and Abel’s got Cain’s cock twitching inside his pants. Abel grinds their confined erections together and their simultaneous exhale sends small jolts of electricity up and down Abel’s spine. So he does it again. And again. Until they’ve got a good rhythm going and Abel’s so close to coming.   
  
“Fuck, Abel,” Cain moans between sucks. “Gonna bend you over when we get back. Want my cock buried deep in that ass. _Ah_ , fuck.”  
  
Abel pulls Cain’s fingers out of his mouth with a wet pop. “Please, Cain…” he begs.   
  
“Please what, baby?”   
  
“Just…”   
  
Abel’s face twists when Cain grinds up and angles their dicks just right. There’ll probably be chafe marks when this is all said and done, and he’ll have to walk around with sloshy skin-tight pants for a good ten minutes, but right now Abel wants nothing more than to dry hump Cain’s cock until he’s coming. Hard.   
  
“Not gonna do anything unless you tell me what you want.” Cain slows down the speed of his hips so that he’s barely touching Abel at all.   
  
“Just…please…” Abel tries to roll down but Cain’s gloved hand on his hip keeps him in place. He’s not moving an inch until he tells Cain what he wants. “Please…finger me.” He’s probably bright red now and the embarrassment flutters his stomach with a million butterfly wings, but Cain’s smirk let’s Abel know he’s about to be rewarded.   
  
“See? Wasn’t that hard.” Cain brings his fingers back to Abel’s mouth. “Open.”  
  
So Abel does, letting Cain rub his fingers inside his mouth until they’re drenched.   
  
With one hand, Cain grabs the back of Abel’s pants and pulls down until the stuffy air inside the capsule hits Abel’s exposed skin. He stretches Abel’s cheeks apart so he can anxiously press his middle finger to Abel’s hole, content with just circling around the tight ring of muscle, laughing.   
  
“Cain,” Abel growls. Two can play at that. He angles his mouth up to chew on Cain’s left earlobe, tugging the earring between his teeth, and Abel smirks at the reaction—Cain gasps and then snarls, wasting no time pushing his middle finger inside.   
  
Abel sighs and his eyes flutter closed as Cain pushes deeper, working his finger in and out at a torturously slow pace, slower than he usually goes. Almost…gentle. It feels good, though, and Abel’s not sure whether he wants to move forward and grind himself against Cain’s cock or push back onto Cain’s fingers. He’s dizzy with arousal and just settles for shameless moaning.   
  
Cain slowly pushes a second finger inside and hooks them up to find Abel’s prostate. He doesn’t have to ask if Abel’s close—Abel’s full body shudder takes care of that.   
  
“Gonna get you nice and loose, princess, so when we get back I can fuck you on the floor. Hands and knees,” Cain rumbles from deep inside his chest.  
  
The uncomfortable twist of Cain’s wrist and angle he’s working with to get Abel blabbering a mixture of profanities (the only time he ever swears, really) and gasps must be painful, but he’s sticking with it, almost challenging Abel to come first.   
  
So he does.   
  
Abel grips the back of Cain’s hair with both hands and _tugs_ , nails digging into Cain’s scalp as he blows his load, hot cum filling the front of his pants as Cain continues to press against his prostate. The loud rush of blood flooding his ears drowns out his even louder moan and his thighs quiver uncontrollably until his orgasm slowly recedes. His vision comes back in blotches and the next thing Abel’s watching is Cain’s face as he comes next, eyes slamming shut, mouth open in a silent groan, and veins bulging as he throws his head back against the chair.   
  
They lie there, boneless, for a good ten minutes. Abel collapses against Cain’s chest and Cain just leans back, lazily stroking Abel’s hair as he tries to stop panting.   
  
“Fuck,” Cain mumbles when comes back down. He pulls his fingers out and Abel’s pants up. The sharp _slap_ of his hand against Abel’s ass kills whatever moment they were having.  
  
Abel shifts a little and grimaces when he feels his cum sliding down the left leg of his pants. It’s congealing uncomfortably against his skin.   
  
Cain’s feeling the same thing because he makes a disgusted face, too, when he stretches out his legs. “Come on, princess, hurry up and get out so we can clean up.”  
  
Abel opens the hatch and steps out with shaky legs. He doesn’t fall, though, because Cain’s right there to catch him. Only after he whispers something about showers and blowjobs.   
  
  
  
**17.**  
  
  
  
Keeler stares a lot, too, but for other reasons.   
  
He _watches_. There’s a difference.   
  
A maternal gaze that reminds Abel of his own mother when she used to praise his sloppy doodles of monsters and rocket ships that somehow always found a home framed on their walls. Keeler looks at him like that; full of pride and indulgence, as if the rough diagram Abel’s working on deserves a spot on the fridge next to his 100% and gold star. _Keep up the good work! You’re doing an amazing job so far!_ Keeler’s smile practically cheers from halfway across the bridge whenever their eyes meet.   
  
An instantaneous hit of helium that Abel swallows down until a bad case of the bends forces him to drop his head and continue to work.  
  
One week post reassignment, Abel looks up and feels sick to his stomach.   
  
Keeler’s staring at him with all the worry and concern a senior navigator can, maybe a tad more than average. It’s that obvious, huh?  
  
Abel doesn’t want to get into it. Hell, he’s practically screaming to get out, but Keeler’s got him cornered between the desk and the wall and the pace at which Keeler’s walking means he’ll probably be here in less than five, four, three, two—  
  
“Is everything all right?”  
  
Bad timing.   
  
Abel throws up a smile and nods enthusiastically, like one of those overacting extras in a cheesy naval academy commercial. “It’s going great!”  
  
Keeler twists the corner of his mouth downward. “I’ve been looking over your logs for the past few days,” he says, bringing up the reports on his tablet. “I’m a little worried, to put it lightly. You seem to be having some issues syncing with your fighter. Maybe it’s the change of environment, but they’re particularly low compared to some of the other pairs on board.”  
  
A pause. He’s supposed to explain the numbers. Right.   
  
“Ah, well, it’s kind of been—“ What’s the word Abel’s looking for? Traumatic? Nerve-racking? Completely batshit? “Rough. The change, I mean. I’m not really used to it yet. Sorry, sir. I’ll strive to do better.”  
  
Abel can tell Keeler’s used to new recruit bullshit because his eyes now evoke a more _don’t pander to me, kid_ mood. “The numbers aren’t exactly _bad_ , really. You’re doing better than most, but…still. There’s something off. If you’re not compatible, you can always request for reassignment.”  
  
An image of Phobos, sneering in the elevator. _I’ll give it three weeks tops_. Cain’s smug grin smiling down at him as he rips his canines into Abel’s lip. Cook’s hand gripping his shoulder a little too tight for comfort. Praxis avoiding him in the hallways. The way Cain’s cock fills him so completely he—  
  
“No,” Abel says a little too quickly. “I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s under control, sir. You’ll see better results in the future. I promise.”  
  
Keeler smiles this time. “It’s okay if it’s not, you know. Sometimes it takes a while for everything to line up. Encke and I weren’t exactly a match made in heaven when we first started, either.”  
  
Abel’s brows quirk. “Really?” Who could guess from their results? Near perfect scores and an almost creepily telepathic ability to read other’s thoughts during a fight.   
  
“A story for another time.” Keeler’s eyes soften as he pats Abel’s shoulder. “I’ll just leave this here for you to look over. Let me know if you need me to explain anything, all right?”  
  
Keeler drops off the datapad so he can go check up on another troubled navigator three rows in front of Abel.   
  
The data reads exactly how Abel thought it would. _Lack of coordination between navigator and fighter._ Not completely unexpected. Abel and Cain mix like oil and water nine times out of ten once they’re both in the cockpit. Abel skims through Keeler’s notes fairly quickly, ripping off the metaphorical bandaid fast before disappointment starts to set in. He stops when gets two paragraphs in: _Reliant’s fighter takes unnecessary risks, stubbornly refuses to obey orders, but implicitly trusts his navigator._  
  
Abel’s heart clenches. He re-reads the sentence again. And again. Until the words burn behind his eyelids.   
  
It stings.   
  
Almost as much as sentence two, paragraph three: _The navigator, however, could stand to remember the second fundamental to being a good one._  
  
  
  
 **18.**  
  
  
  
Bering doesn’t prescribe to Cook’s tried and true simulations, or “sitting chickenshit inside a capsule”. He prefers solid steel and a rattling cockpit to keep his fighters sharp. Which is why every other Friday on the _Sleipnir_ is—as Cain has come to describe it (at four thirty in the morning with the most psychotic smile Abel’s ever seen)—“Gun Day Fun Day”. For navigators, this just adds another unnecessary burden to their already busy schedule. Not to mention even more ship repairs. For fighters, well…there’s probably a better, safer way to have a dick-measuring contest without using actual bullets.   
  
Abel slaps in the rendezvous coordinates for round three.   
  
They came in second.   
  
To Keeler and Encke.  
  
 _Again_.  
  
“Fuck!” Cain slams his fists on the panels. “We almost had ‘em! Fuckin’ Keeler pulled some crazy ass stunt flipping the starfighter upside-down like that. We gotta try that one next, Abel! Give ‘em a dose of their own shitty medicine.” Cain’s voice booms over his shoulder as he puffs the little wisp of hair that refuses to tuck inside his helmet away from his eyes.   
  
Abel cracks a smirk. Okay, so maybe this isn’t a _complete_ waste of time. “I think I can manage something like that. Just fire when I tell you to.”  
  
Cain snorts. “You got it, princess. You know I don’t shoot blanks.”  
  
If Abel rolls his eyes any harder they’ll probably pop right out and slide under the chair. “Maybe not, but your accuracy was a little lower than usual.”   
  
Abel can practically hear Cain seething from the other side of the starfighter.   
  
“Yeah, well maybe if you weren’t so textbook with your flying my shots would line up better,” Cain barks back. “What happened to the Abel from last week, huh? He pussy out? His balls shrivel up and fall off?”   
  
Last week.   
  
When the Colterons had ambushed the scouting squad. Abel doesn’t remember the specifics. Those ten point six minutes had passed in a blur, but he does remember ordering Cain to get ready while he turned the ship around for a game of kamikaze chicken. He’d been gutsy. A little _too_ gutsy. Abel always imagined himself a hero, just not the self-destructive kind. But something had told him, deep down, that they’d be okay. That Cain would be—   
  
“That was too risky,” Abel replies after a pause. He shuts his eyes and sees the Colteron ship flying toward them, course changing to match theirs, getting closer and closer on the radar until they’re overlapping and then— “You—“ He swallows. “ _We_ could’ve died.”  
  
Cain cranes his neck to look back at Abel and when their eyes meet, Abel’s heart speeds up in preparation for the crash.   
  
“But we didn’t,” Cain counters, voice firm. “You saved our asses. Not because you were following the stupid rules, but because you said ‘fuck it’ and flew with your instincts. _That’s_ what saved us.” The words sound so genuine; Abel can’t help but believe them. “So throw out the book, princess, and fly like you’ve got nothing left to lose.”   
  
But he does.   
  
(And almost did.)  
  
“Besides,” Cain continues as he readjusts the straps on his shoulders, “it was more fun. Almost shocked me there with how good your poker face was, sweetheart.”  
  
“Poker?” Abel repeats. Wait, he knows this one. It’s an old Earth game. Involving chips and cards. “That’s the game where you ask if someone has the card you’re looking for and if they don’t you have to draw one and say ‘Go Fish’, right?”  
  
The loud smack of Cain’s palm against his forehead means Abel’s wrong. In every way possible.   
  
It’s a colonist game. Most of the fighters and some of the engineers know how to play it, but Abel’s never bothered to learn the rules. Back on Earth there’s all sorts of high-end entertainment to keep you busy. VR, nightclubs, and even in-home hologram puppet shows—Abel’s sixth birthday was most certainly _not_ his favorite. Poker, though, that was a game for drunks, addicts, and low class thugs. According to Abel’s father.  
  
“When we get back I’m teaching you how to play. For credits. And if we run out of those, well, there’s _other_ things we could bet.”   
  
Like sex. Cain _always_ means sex.   
  
Which, surprisingly, doesn’t grate Abel the way it usually does when they’re on the clock. There’s an explanation for that, but Abel’s not ready to admit it yet.   
  
“Like your cigarettes,” Abel jokes.   
  
Cain clicks his tongue. “No dice. I was gonna say your virginity, but I already took that.”  
  
“CAIN!” Abel chokes. The burn of his cheeks rivals the temperature of the ship’s engine.   
  
“Sorry, princess. No take-backs. I only play for keeps.” Cain wags his finger and chuckles deep enough to make Abel squirm in his seat.   
  
A series of short beeps from the computer means an incoming message is about to patch through. Abel coughs and composes himself as best he can. The last thing he needs is Keeler catching him blushing on screen. Abel answers the video call and clears his throat before he says “sir” with all the professionalism in the universe.   
  
Keeler’s smiling face greets him on the other screen. _”One more round and then we’re calling it a day. We’ll run out of fuel if we push it any further. Understood?”_  
  
“Affirmative!”  
  
 _”See you in t-minus two, Reliant. Valkyrie out.”_  
  
Cain sighs dramatically in the front. “How much longer until we’re there, Abel?” he whines like a kid trapped in the backseat on a long road trip.   
  
“Less than a minute and a half now,” Abel replies. “Get ready because we’re going in guns blazing.”  
  
Cain perks up and grabs the triggers. “Now that’s more like it!”  
  
The _Reliant_ reduces speed when it arrives at its destination. Abel makes good on his promise and immediately targets the closest starfighter: Phobos’ and Deimos’—completely coincidental of course. Cain lets loose a short burst, just enough to nick the wing a few times without any major damage. Three shots and you’re out, those are the rules. And the _Equinox_ ’s already down a strike. Two more and it’s just a few rookies standing in between the _Reliant_ and the _Valkyrie_.   
  
Abel licks his lips in anticipation of the _Equinox_ ’s counterattack and quickly plots a course away from their projected path. It pays off because the _Reliant_ manages to just narrowly avoid a small spray. Abel takes advantage of Phobos’ mistake and kills the engines so that the _Equinox_ can whizz by without even stopping. He yells for Cain to fire and by the time the words have left his mouth, there’s a row of bullets pelting the _Equinox_ ’s tail. Strike two.   
  
“One more time and they’re done for!” Abel shouts with a smile on his face.   
  
Cain’s energetic laugh quickens Abel’s pulse. “Line ‘em up for me, princess. Let’s make it three for three.”  
  
The _Reliant_ ’s engines hit full throttle zooming toward the _Equinox_ with reckless abandon. Phobos manages to turn his ship around and now the _Equinox_ is headed straight for them. Deimos must be desperate because he’s firing potshots with little to no thought behind each squeeze of the trigger. Abel dodges them easily. He banks left to avoid another spray, and is about to tell Cain to pull the trigger, when something unexpected flashes on the radar.   
  
Three incoming ships approaching from deep space.   
  
There’s only one possibility.  
  
“Colterons!” Abel shouts over his shoulder.   
  
Keeler hails their party immediately.   
  
_“There’s only three of them,”_ he announces over the radio, _“probably a scouting group. Looks like they’ve been spying on us just as much as we’ve been spying on them. I know we’re unprepared, but we can’t let them report our position or we risk endangering the_ Sleipnir _! Eliminate all hostiles! Good luck._ Valkyrie _out!”_  
  
Abel adjusts their course so that they’re flying straight toward the Colterons.   
  
“You heard the boss man,” Cain says; Abel can hear the smile in his tone. “Let’s squash a few bugs!”   
  
“Locking on to the first target. Prepare to fire on my mark.”   
  
Abel locks the _Reliant_ ’s crosshairs onto the first one he sees—the Colteron ship closest to their left. A few rookies engage the other two while Keeler and Encke try and divide the formation so that they’re easier to pick off. Deimos and Phobos fly straight for the middle, laying down some suppressing fire as the _Valkyrie_ stirs the hornet’s nest. It’s an attack pattern they’ve used before, during simulations and on the field. Only this time they’re running on close to empty and each bullet counts.   
  
The _Reliant_ matches the Colteron’s flight pattern until they’re practically in sync. Abel keeps the crosshairs steady. “Mark!” he shouts.  
  
Cain fires and hits the engine. The Colteron ship sputters out of control, dead in the water. Abel takes them around for another go and this time when Cain fires, he aims straight for the cockpit. The ship explodes—complete annihilation.   
  
One down, two more to go.   
  
It’s too soon to call it a victory, though. One of the rookie pairs ends up getting sniped from afar and now they’re just drifting aimlessly. The navigator’s probably knocked out. Or worse, dead.   
  
The _Reliant_ ’s closest to the _Ulysses_ ’ vicinity.   
  
“ _Ulysses_ , this is the _Reliant_. Hang in there, we’re coming!” Abel radios, but there’s no response. Just static.   
  
So Abel floors it and flies straight into the fray. Keeler and Encke have their hands full with the lead Colteron starfighter and Phobos and Deimos are barely keeping theirs together. They must be out of bullets or they’d be taking shots at the ship right on their asses.   
  
“Ammunition down to 30%!” Cain barks as they close in.   
  
“Then we’ll have to end this fast. Our fuel is running low, too. Less than 40% left,” Abel replies.  
  
Can laughs, but it’s tense. “We’ll be done in three. Start the timer.”  
  
Abel takes the _Reliant_ in close, whizzing past the _Ulysses_ until they’re right in the middle of the dogfight. The Colteron ship somersaults and heads straight for them. Abel roughly banks left, then right, avoiding the incoming fire. He can’t dodge them all, though. The Colteron lands a direct hit to their right wing, shaking the whole ship. Abel braces against the console and he can hear Cain grunting behind him. They can’t afford any more blows like that or they’re as good as dead. The _Reliant_ ’s hull might lose structural integrity.   
  
Cain fires a few shots, nicking the Colteron’s ship a few times, but nothing decisive. Now their reserve reads 20%.  
  
“If you’ve got another crazy idea, now’s the time to use it!” Cain shouts as they ride out another hit. The _Reliant_ ’s internal lights flicker.   
  
Abel runs scenarios in his head, thinks about all the simulations they’ve gone through, and comes up with a halfway decent plan.   
  
“We’re going to use the last bit of fuel to burst ahead, pull a quick U-turn, and then you’ll have one shot to hit the pilot,” Abel explains mid-navigation. “I’ll make sure I take us close enough so you can make it count.” He doesn’t know what possesses him to turn around and add, “I’m trusting you, Cain”, but there it is. Out in the open. Abel feels inexplicably lighter.   
  
Cain doesn’t say anything back, just nods with a softer smile than usual on his lips. Abel’s scar curls upwards reflexively.   
  
The plan goes smoothly. Abel uses what little fuel they’ve got left to push ahead in a short burst so that there’s some distance between them and the Colteron ship tailing the _Reliant_. When he judges they’ve flown far enough, Abel hooks left and turns about, heading straight for the enemy. With steady hands, he locks the crosshairs onto the cockpit. This is just like last time. He can do this. Abel takes a deep breath and allows himself to feel the rush of adrenaline surging through his body, the overwhelming instinct to protect. He’s so close, sinking further into those all too familiar emotions. They’re going to make it.   
  
Just a few more miles and then Cain can take the shot. Too soon and they’ll have wasted the very last of their ammo. Abel pushes back the nerves fraying the corners of his mind.   
  
Less than ten seconds now.   
  
An image of Cain sloppily eating borscht pops into Abel’s head.   
  
Seven seconds.  
  
Another one of Cain bloodied and bruised after yet another fight on the _Sleipnir_.   
  
Four.   
  
They’re in bed; Abel hiccups with pleasure every time Cain angles his hips _just right_.   
  
One.   
  
His first day as a navigator. Abel remembers being filled with so much—  
  
“Cain, fire!”   
  
Doubt.   
  
Cain takes the shot. He hits the target without fail, eliminating the other pilot with ease.  
  
But that’s only half the battle.   
  
The _Reliant_ doesn’t vanish like it did last week. Something goes horribly wrong. Abel jerks the ship up at the last millisecond to avoid a head-on collision, but it’s too late. The right wing crashes into the Colteron’s left and sparks fly everywhere, inside and out. The _Reliant_ ’s spinning out of control, completely unbalanced and adrift as smoke starts to fume inside the cockpit. A console blows and a few live wires slither back and forth overhead, electricity hissing dangerously close to Abel’s head. Another explosion and this time Abel feels something colliding painfully with the side of his head. There’s blood gushing down his forehead, dripping into his eyes, but the only thing Abel can process is the monosyllabic chant playing on loop in his mind— _Cain, Cain, Cain_.   
  
There’s a voice calling for him, probably Cain’s, but Abel can’t hear anything over the static ringing in his ears. More blood seeps onto the navigation panel and, oh, he realizes once his vision starts to blur, there’s a lot of it. More than that time he’d scraped his knee on the sidewalk learning to ride a bike. Abel’s not going to make it at this rate. He’s lost feeling completely, which is probably why he hasn’t started screaming in pain from the sharp piece of metal digging into his side. Can’t keep his eyes open for much longer, either. So he fights until the end, holds on just long enough to use his numbed fingers to plot a course back to the _Sleipnir_ before he loses sensation in those, too.  
  
Cain screams in Russian and the desperation in his voice almost keeps Abel from blacking out.   
  
There’s no fighting it, though. So he doesn’t.   
  
Abel’s vision goes black and somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers that he forgot to ask Cain whether he was having any fun.   
  
  
  
**19.**  
  
  
  
It was a good run, but all things must come to an end.   
  
And if that’s how it has to be, well, at least Ethan’s going out with a bang.   
  
“No. And that’s final.”   
  
Ethan’s father grips the brochure tightly between his fingers and the paper crinkles from the force of it. Ethan got careless and now he’s paying the price. The spot between his headboard and the wall used to be a good hiding place, but ever since his father hired that new maid, she’s been snooping around and rearranging things. Ethan wouldn’t be surprised if his father had made that little caveat a requirement in the job listing. Either way, Ethan’s been found out and now he’s standing in the kitchen, simultaneously dejected and crushed. His mother watches from the sidelines, passive. She can’t help him now.  
  
“It’s not up to you,” Ethan grumbles, fist tightening as he holds his ground. The words sound childish as soon as they leave his mouth.   
  
Of course it is. Everything’s been predetermined, right down to his base code.   
  
Mr. Harris chokes back a laugh. “No? I’m sorry, Ethan, but might I ask who paid for your private education? Your ‘hobbies’? Hmm?” He holds the brochure up and slowly tears it in half, then tears the halves in half until there’s nothing but confetti on the floor. “No son of mine is joining this….this…territory war! _You_ are better than that. I raised you to succeed me, Ethan. Not to get yourself killed fighting with lowlife colonists. I forbid it. End of discussion.”   
  
But Ethan’s not done. Not yet. He can’t let his dream die, not like this.   
  
“I’m really good!” Ethan counters, raising his voice. “I’ve taken some tests…sat in the VR capsule a few times and flew a bit. The Naval Academy said I could be top of my class if I—“  
  
His father groans in exasperation. “This is your doing,” he grumbles toward Ethan’s mother, rubbing his tired face. “If he hadn’t gone to that imbecilic job fair our son’s head wouldn’t be filled with this garbage. You encouraged this.”  
  
Mrs. Harris opens her mouth to speak, but Ethan cuts her off.   
  
“I’ve wanted this since I was six, father!” Ethan’s full on shouting now. Decibels be damned. “You wouldn’t know because you’ve never cared about what _I_ wanted! I _hate_ politics. I don’t _want_ to be a politician or whatever it is you want me to be! I’m going to be a navigator and I don’t give a damn if—“  
  
Ethan’s body hits the wall as his father corners him between the counters and the doorframe.   
  
“Listen here, you ungrateful little shit. I don’t _care_ whether you want to be a navigator, an artist, or a goddamn delivery boy. Your mother and I gave up everything for you and I will not have you throw away your future chasing some childish dream that’s going to get you killed.” The low, threatening tone of his father’s voice chills him down to the bone. The whole house seems to shake with each word. “Do you know how many families would kill to be in our position? Your genetic resequencing alone cost more than your mother’s and mine combined! I’ve slaved away for _years_ so that you could live comfortably. I even set you up with a cozy desk job in the Governor’s office and you have the audacity to tell _me_ what’s best for _you_?!”  
  
Ethan’s legs tremble and his arms feel heavy. He tries to swallow, but ends up gulping air. There are a million thoughts floating inside his head. _Shut up shut up shut up shut up!_ he wants to scream. If he were braver he’d do it. Empty his lungs and shout until his father understood why twenty meaningful years meant more to him than one hundred comfortable ones.   
  
But Ethan isn’t brave, and so he settles for silence and a lifetime of regret.   
  
Mr. Harris straightens his tie as he takes a step back. “Tomorrow you will report to the Governor’s office and start your internship. Granted you don’t screw anything up, you should be well on your way to a promising career in politics. Now, clean up this garbage and get yourself ready for dinner. We’re having guests tonight and I’d like to introduce you to them.”  
  
Ethan’s father points toward the shredded brochure still lying in pieces on the floor.   
  
As he leaves, Ethan’s mother steps in to help soften the blow.   
  
“He only wants what’s best for you, Ethan.” Her gentle hand on his shoulder weighs him down until Ethan’s sinking to the floor, knees hitting the tile with a loud thud. Her nails rake through his hair, but Ethan’s unmoved by the soothing gesture. “It’s too dangerous out there. This will be good for you. You’ll see.”  
  
The wholesome smile of the brochure’s model stares up at him. Only his head remains, lower half severed a few inches away. Ethan picks up the scrap and stares back.   
  
“Who knows,” his mother placates, “maybe you’ll like doing what your father does? You won’t know until you try.”  
  
She picks up the scattered pieces and throws them in the trash.   
  
Except for one.   
  
Three days later, Ethan shoves his whole life inside a small dufflebag and drives his motorcycle across interstates and bridges until he finds himself in front of a building that reads: Alliance Naval Academy - _Non Sibi Sed Patriae***_.  
  
All heroes were once cowards.  
  
  
  
 **20.**  
  
  
  
Isopropyl.   
  
The sterile scent burns his nostrils.   
  
Abel blinks until his vision goes from black to Technicolor.   
  
Scratchy white sheets, an IV drip, bandages.   
  
Oh.   
  
He’s in medical.   
  
Abel licks his dry lips and then tries to sit up. He fails miserably, though, and immediately regrets moving in the first place. Every inch of his body throbs painfully and the dull ache in his head compounds tenfold as he registers the steady beep of the monitor next to him, affirming that yes, he is indeed still alive. The sensor strapped to his index finger squeezes uncomfortably. Abel itches to take the stupid thing off, but decides against it. The clock on the wall reads 09:00. Too early to give the MO a medical emergency of his own.   
  
He struggles for what feels like hours trying to reach for a glass of water before one of the nurses notices his predicament.   
  
She doesn’t help, though. Just walks away to find the doctor once she sees he’s no longer comatose.   
  
Abel sighs.   
  
And then closes his eyes.   
  
He remembers fire and smoke and the color red smeared everywhere. An explosion beside him, sparks of electricity, _so much blood_. Abel’s heart accelerates as the memories rush back. The monitor beeps a bit faster and Abel’s breathing comes in quick pants, nostrils flaring with each exhale. A scrap of metal juts out from his gut and Abel can feel it now, the phantom pain lingering like a ghost. He instinctively touches the spot and his fingertips trace the outline of gauze and tape. It’s deep and probably bruising.   
  
A voice calls his name.  
  
“Cain—”  
  
“Is fine.”  
  
Abel’s eyes pop open. The medical officer is starting at him with a tablet in hand, jotting down notes with great interest.   
  
“A few cuts and bruises, but otherwise unharmed,” the MO continues. “You, on the other hand, required immediate surgery. I can’t even begin to explain just how many stiches and staples your body had a few days ago. The most out of any patient I’ve ever admitted. They’ve dissolved by now, though. You shouldn’t be experiencing as much pain. You aren’t, are you? Experiencing pain, that is.”  
  
Abel weakly shakes his head. “Not really. Just a headache…”  
  
“Ah.” The doctor fishes inside his coat for a small bottle. “Take two of these.” He hands Abel the glass of water afterwards and waits expectantly until Abel pops them in his mouth and swallows. “They’ll help alleviate some of the pain. I’m surprised you can still feel it.”  
  
Abel downs another sip and quirks a brow. “Feel what?”  
  
“We had to drill into your skull. A small piece of metal lodged itself pretty good there. It didn’t penetrate past the bone, but you were also suffering from some minor swelling, probably from that nasty hit your head took, so we made a small hole to relieve the pressure. But don’t worry, the procedure wasn’t _too_ serious. If everything checks out in the next couple of days, you’ll be discharged with a clean bill of health. You’ve had a few weeks to recover quite nicely.”  
  
Abel reaches up to touch his head. “A few weeks?” he repeats, speech slurred.   
  
“Two to be precise,” the MO replies, pen tapping against the datapad. “You’ve had a few visitors come in and out while you were unconscious. Your fighter stops by often,” he adds more like an afterthought as he checks through Abel’s record a second time.  
  
“Cain?” Abel perks up and tries to prop himself against the pillows. This time, he manages to get halfway and he figures that’s good enough for now.   
  
The doctor’s expression hardens. “Yes, him. He’s been quite…problematic. I’ve had to kick him out five times this past week alone. Visiting hours are _not_ arbitrary. People can’t just come and go as they please! This isn’t a hotel! He’s lucky I haven’t called security on him. And another thing—“  
  
Abel zones out halfway through the MO’s speech on punctuality and the lack thereof with today’s youth. He’s too busy imagining all of the times Cain’s come to visit him while he’s been comatose. Warmth spreads from his cheeks all the way down to his toes and a sudden pang clenches tightly around his heart. It _thump-thumps_ erratically until the sharp throb spasms with rhythmic precision. Abel fists the front of his blue hospital gown and exhales a shaky laugh.   
  
Months later and he’s only now just figuring this all out.  
  
It’s only when the MO stops rambling and stares at him like he’s mutated a second head does Abel realize that he’s smiling.   
  
  
  
**21.**  
  
  
  
Funny how you can remember something so insignificant hours, days, even months after you’ve forgotten.   
  
It all comes back in due time like a lost message in a bottle, washing ashore after years of isolation, only to find you again when you least expect it.   
  
_Go ahead, read me. You’re ready now_ is what it’s telling you.   
  
So you dust off the sand, unscrew the cork, and take a peek inside.   
  
And then the next thing you know, you’re staring up at the ceiling at 04:00, laughing to yourself because you’ve suddenly remembered that Atlas pairs with Axis to do what can’t be done alone, together.   
  
A grumpy voice tells you to quit making so much noise and go back to sleep, but you can’t.  
  
Because you’ve finally found your missing half.  
  
  
  
 **22.**  
  
  
  
Cain’s mouth latches onto his neck and Abel moans loudly because it’s been so damn long. The tension coiling in his belly might actually kill him.   
  
He’s tired, bruised, and his whole body aches, but Abel wants this, _needs_ to feel Cain inside and out.   
  
Abel pushes back against Cain’s hardening cock when he feels rough fingers skimming along his hips, dipping below the hem of his briefs to yank down with urgency. The frantic pace Cain’s setting rushes straight to Abel’s head and he can’t tell if the world’s spinning because he’s so dizzy with desire or because the cocktail of pills Doctor Solymus prescribed occasionally cause minor bouts of nausea.   
  
“Please,” Abel whines as he unintentionally scrapes blunt nails up the back of Cain’s thigh. He stammers nonsense into the mattress with each nip and suck and _fuck_ if he didn’t miss this.   
  
The way Cain pulls him in close so that their bodies tangle beneath the sheets; a mess of limbs, heat, and spit inseparably twined until Cain can prove that one plus one does not always equal two.   
  
Abel breathes deep and smells tobacco on his pillowcase and hates how he’s missed all of Cain’s bad habits. He buries his nose into the scent again and hates his own even more.   
  
Abel groans when Cain drags a hand down his stomach to fist his slick cock. He doesn’t waste any time and starts to pump Abel in slow, even jerks until Abel’s rutting forward into the palm of Cain’s hand, begging for _more, more, please just fuck me_. A low whine catches in his throat when he feels Cain rubbing the head of his dick against his ass, smearing precum all over. Inside. Abel needs him inside. So he reaches back and grabs Cain’s cock, stroking as best he can with a sore shoulder and weak grip until Cain gets the hint.   
  
Cain peels Abel’s hand off him and places it flat on the mattress. “Slow down, baby,” Cain mumbles into Abel’s skin and Abel can’t help but find it a bit ironic considering Cain was the one who’d jumped his bones as soon as they’d made it out of medical. “Pull your leg up. Like this.” Cain hooks an arm under Abel’s right knee and pushes forward so that Abel’s stretched out on his un-bandaged side with one leg higher than the other. “Is this okay?” Cain asks and Abel blanks because he never does.   
  
“Y-yeah,” Abel affirms when Cain teases the skin just below his balls, occasionally rubbing lower so that he’s circling Abel’s entrance with one dry finger. “A-ah, Cain, please.” Abel throws his head back onto Cain’s shoulder and grinds down impatiently. He can’t wait any longer.   
  
“Fuck,” Cain growls, trying his hardest not to just suck two fingers and open Abel up like that. “Hold on, lemme find it.”   
  
A shiver crawls up and down Abel’s hot skin from the loss of body heat. He palms his erection once, and then stops himself because he’s so worked up a few tugs might actually send him over. Abel glances over his shoulder and watches Cain fish the lube out from the second drawer. “Hurry, please,” Abel begs. His cock leaks all over the sheets and the tightness in his balls borderlines uncomfortable.  
  
The mattress dips as Cain crawls back. “Lift your leg up again, princess,” he says and Abel does as he’s told.   
  
Cain finally unscrews the lid and spends a bit more time than usual coating his fingers. When the first one slips in, Abel practically sobs because it feels so good and he covers his mouth to keep from screaming. Cain slowly pushes his finger knuckle-deep and crooks it slightly to help ease the stretch. He pulls out and then slides back in, repeating the process until he’s slowly fucking Abel with just his middle finger. The sounds Abel makes as Cain rubs against his walls flushes his whole face a bright red.   
  
“More,” Abel whines when it’s not enough. “I need another one.”   
  
Any other time and Abel would be embarrassed at how desperate his voice sounds, but right now he doesn’t care, and neither does Cain because he’s obediently sliding in a second along with the first.  
  
Abel’s about to beg for another when Cain angles his fingers just right and presses down on his prostate.   
  
“Ah!” Abel bites his fist when Cain does it again and again until Abel’s writhing and shaking against Cain’s chest. His cock twitches and Abel’s pretty sure he could come from this alone. He almost wants to. “I’m…I’m gonna—“  
  
“Not yet,” Cain cuts off. He withdraws his fingers and Abel chokes back a sob. “Not until my cock’s in you.”  
  
If it weren’t for the blood pounding in his ears Abel might’ve heard Cain going back for another round of lube, but he doesn’t, so when Cain presses three fingers against his entrance, Abel screams.   
  
Cain spreads his fingers apart and stretches until Abel’s adjusted. “That good huh?” he laughs.   
  
Abel nods his head. “Feels s-so good,” he blabbers. But it’s still not enough. “Please, Cain. I need…want your cock.” His cheeks burn from embarrassment, but Abel’s desperate and if Cain’s grunts are anything to go by, he is, too.   
  
Cain pulls out and Abel aches from the emptiness. He doesn’t have time to relax, though, because Cain’s pushing the head of his cock against his hole and with one slow thrust, Cain’s halfway inside. Abel moans and cranes his neck back so his jugular pulses beneath Cain’s sharp canines. Another shallow thrust and Cain’s almost balls-deep.   
  
“Oh, fuck, Abel,” Cain groans when his pelvis slaps against Abel’s ass. “ _Shit_ I fucking missed this. Couldn’t even touch you for weeks.” He pulls almost all the way out and then thrusts back in, deeper this time, and Abel shudders around him. “Don’t you ever—ah _fuck_ —do that again. You got that? You’re _my_ navigator. No one else.”   
  
Abel doesn’t speak because he _can’t_. Not after that. Instead he nods his head and cries out when another sharp thrust takes him by surprise.   
  
A slow rhythm builds between them, gentler than what Abel’s used to. Cain’s usually all instinct and hormones, but this time he’s careful, like Abel’s about to break. Abel closes his eyes and grips the sheets until his knuckles turn white. His nails dig through the cotton into his sweaty palm.   
  
“Th-there!” Abel screams when Cain angles his hips just right. “Right there. Please, please, again. Cain.”   
  
The wet slap of skin on skin echoes between them and mingles with their labored breathing, breathy moans growing louder and louder until Abel’s sure that they’ll be hoarse by morning.   
  
Cain trails one hand up to play with Abel’s hard nipples, pinching and squeezing so he can draw out another sharp whine. “Say it,” he growls, the words more animalistic than human. “Promise me.” And the way Cain’s voice shakes as he gives himself away lets Abel know everything he needs to. Cain doesn’t mention how he’d been insomniac for days, fought tooth and nail against anyone who’d brought up Abel’s condition, or drunk himself stupid every other night. He doesn’t have to. Abel feels it when Cain leans over and presses his lips to Abel’s, etching the unspoken words inside Abel’s mouth with each swipe of his tongue.   
  
“I—“ Another deep thrust and then Cain _bites_ and Abel’s teetering over the edge. “I promise.” His voice, barely above a whisper, cracks on the last word. “You too. Promise.” The endorphins make him brave.  
  
Cain stops moving.   
  
Abel freezes and then panics. Did he fuck everything up? He glances over his shoulder to watch Cain’s eyes soften and brows un-knit, and he exhales a sigh because the look on Cain’s face mirrors his own.   
  
“Yeah,” Cain mumbles against Abel’s cheek. “Okay. If…that’s what you want.”   
  
“It is.”  
  
This time, when Cain slides back inside, he smirks. “Then it’s a promise, sweetheart. But yours comes first. Or you’re really gonna piss me off.”   
  
Cain grabs Abel’s hand and laces their fingers together, gripping so tightly it starts to hurt, but Abel’s too lost to notice. He just squeezes back and closes his eyes as Cain pounds into him. Cain pants against his ear and Abel groans because the heat in his belly licks all the way up to his chest where his heart beats uncontrollably beneath their joined palms. He’s so close. Just a little bit more. Cain snaps forward with bruising force and Abel swears he can feel tears in his eyes.   
  
“I’m gonna come,” Cain moans. His hips move erratically now, losing all sense of rhythm.   
  
“Inside,” Abel says and pushes back. “Come inside.”   
  
Cain’s grip on his hand tightens as he shoots his load, voice rising in pitch as he fills Abel up with hot cum. A long groan vibrates inside his chest and against Abel’s back. He sounds absolutely wrecked.   
  
Before Abel can so much as take another breath, Cain’s grabbing his cock and jerking him off with fast strokes, making sure to go all the way down before coming back up to tease the slit. It doesn’t take much longer until Abel’s coming all over Cain’s hand and on his own stomach, some of his semen leaking down onto the mattress where it pools beneath him. His whole body tingles and his head’s swimming with post-orgasmic bliss. When Cain pulls out, Abel gasps as the cum leaks down the backs of his thighs and dries stickily between them.   
  
Cain grunts in disgust. “Stay there.”  
  
Abel wheezes a laugh because where else would he go?   
  
The sound of the faucet running echoes into the living room. Cain comes back with a wet washcloth and a few tissues. Abel turns his head to watch as Cain slowly wipes away the mess. His leg cramps from being pushed up for so long and Cain makes sure to rub the muscles a bit before moving on.   
  
“Ah, shit,” Abel gasps as Cain starts to poke and prod inside his stretched hole.  
  
“Nah. Just my jizz,” Cain jokes.  
  
If his eyes weren’t closed, Abel would be rolling them. “Don’t— _hah_ —wiggle so much.”  
  
“Got to, princess, or you’ll be shitting cum for days.”   
  
After a few minutes of stretching and overstimulation, Cain chucks the dirty tissues into the trashcan and tosses the washcloth in the general vicinity of the bathroom. He flops onto his back and pulls Abel to his chest, curling one hand against the side of Abel’s face so he can play with his hair.   
  
“You take your pills?” Cain asks just as Abel’s about to pass out.   
  
He nods his head and buries his face into Cain’s neck. “Before,” he yawns. “I think they’re making me sleepy.”  
  
Cain snorts. “Not the fun kind then. I was gonna pop some to find out which one gets me high.” He runs a hand down Abel’s smooth back and squeezes his ass. Abel practically jumps out of his skin. “Guess I’ll have to get my kicks somewhere else.”  
  
Abel smirks and winds back his foot. “I could give you a kick right now, if that’s what you want.” And the look on Cain’s face makes Abel laugh uncontrollably. He’s feeling a little loopy, too. Colors look brighter, Cain’s sweat smells saltier, and Abel swears he can hear the _Sleipnir_ rotating in space. He blinks his eyes and they open out of time.  
  
“You sure you’re not high?” Cain asks with mild concern and a hint of interest.   
  
“Don’t know.” Abel reaches over and grabs the closest bottle. Before meeting Cain, he would have never even considered doing something like this, but now, after everything they’ve been through, Abel feels like the whole universe could fit in his palm. And maybe the drugs have something to do with his sudden surge of courage. “Wanna find out?”   
  
Cain smirks. “Give it to me,” he whispers against Abel’s mouth and opens wide.   
  
  
  
**23.**  
  
  
  
Phobos doesn’t look nearly as intimidating with starlight in his eyes. Or with insecurity written all over his face. Abel watches him shift from foot to foot before settling into an uncomfortable stance against the railing, leaning all his weight forward as he stares out into space. He looks angry and tired and like everything from now on is an exercise in regret. And for a moment, when Abel notices the sunken shadows of Phobos’ cheeks, he takes pity. Because it’s so obvious now that Phobos was once like him.   
  
“You’re his favorite, you know,” Phobos admits after a few seconds of silence. “The commander’s star pupil. Abel the Genius here to save the day.” Phobos laughs with an air of disgust. “He’s fickle, though. So don’t get too comfortable with your place at the top. He’ll find someone else sooner or later—he always does. And then the next thing you know,” _snap_ “you’re hitting rock bottom.” There’s only so much bullshit Phobos can make up before personal experience slips between the cracks.  
  
“You better hope your fighter doesn’t do the same. But who am I kidding?” Phobos smirks and then the moment passes just like that, along with Abel’s sympathy. “Cain has a thing for breaking navigators. I guess I’ll look forward to the inevitable crash.”  
  
Abel balls his fists and thinks of the time he socked Phobos in the eye. And then thinks of all the times Cain’s kissed him in the elevator, taking him by surprise with just how much he _wants_ and _needs_ without ever saying a word. His lips tingle, sore, and Abel licks them until he tastes whiskey and something like love.  
  
“Then I guess you forgot what happened last month,” Abel counters, exuding borrowed confidence. “Because we did crash. And _my_ fighter actually cared whether I lived or died.”  
  
Phobos turns to look at Abel with a sour expression on his face. He opens his mouth, ready for another scathing remark, but then Keeler’s calling them to start the meeting and Phobos slinks away when he spots Porthos near the back.   
  
Abel grins in triumph, and then frowns when he pictures the kind of person who made Phobos believe he wasn’t worth saving.   
  
“Abel!”  
  
Ethos jogs over to Abel’s spot by the window looking cautiously apprehensive. There’s a crumb stuck to the corner of his mouth and Abel’s pretty sure Ethos inhaled his lunch before getting here. It’s endearing.   
  
“Was Phobos bothering you again?” Ethos asks, glancing over toward the other navigator’s general direction. Porthos glares at him. Ethos snaps his head back.  
  
Abel shakes his head. “Not any more than usual,” he answers. “I think I know how to handle him now.”  
  
Keeler claps his hands and urges them to quiet down because he’s about to congratulate them on another successful mission.   
  
“Yeah?” Ethos whispers as the lights start to dim. “Tell me.”  
  
Abel’s smile disappears in the dark. He’s not an expert, not by any means, but through consistent trial and error, he’s finally cracked the code. “You just have to remember that you’re not alone,” he answers as the whole room drowns in applause.   
  
  
  
**24.**  
  
  
  
This is the day.   
  
Ethan’s waited his whole life for this very moment.   
  
The thunderous _ba-dump_ of his heart muddles what the officer’s saying. Ethan just nods like he understands every single word, fresh-faced and jubilant that he’s finally here. On a shuttle headed for a star base. In _actual_ space. He’s got years of training under his belt, awards and straight A’s, too, enough to impress anyone at the top. But Ethan’s still nervous, fidgety, and impatient. He clenches and unclenches his twitchy fingers resting atop his slacks, and stares out the window to watch the stars whizz by.   
  
His five-year-old self would be so impressed. Ethan struggles not to act that way, too.  
  
“First time leaving the planet?” the officer asks him as Ethan’s knee-bouncing reaches maximum levels of distraction.   
  
Ethan pulls his attention away from the window. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m a little nervous. Excited, actually. I’ve wanted to be a navigator for, well, ever.”  
  
The man smiles apologetically, as if warning Ethan that from this point on nothing will be like the recruitment video they show you _before_ you sign your life away. “Ah, well, this is a dream come true for you then, right?” He flips disinterestedly through Ethan’s file. “We should go over a few basics before we get there. Has anyone told you your task name?”  
  
Ethan shakes his head.  
  
“It’s Abel. So get used to it.”  
  
 _Abel_.  
  
Ethan rolls the name around on his tongue a few times until it sounds more familiar than foreign. He stares deep into his mirrored eyes until the person in front of him leaves all traces of _Ethan_ behind and then it’s just _Abel_ smiling in astonishment back at him because he’s really here and this isn’t another fantastical dream.   
  
“You’ll be assigned a fighter when you get to the base,” the officer continues. “I don’t know who it is yet, but I’m sure he’s either a rookie like you or he’s lost a navigator recently. So you might want to dial the whole ‘fresh out of the academy’ thing back a few notches.”  
  
Eth—no. _Abel_ nods enthusiastically. “Yes, sir.”  
  
The officer sighs. “Anyway, we should be arriving there in,” he checks his watch, “two hours. I’ll be back to check on you before then. I’ve got some stops to make.” He raises his datapad with a few other new navigators’ names listed. “See you in a bit…Abel.”  
  
Abel lets out a breath he’d unintentionally been holding and relaxes against his chair. He watches other officers consult rookie navigators up and down the aisle for a bit before closing his eyes and letting the gentle hum of the ship’s engine lull him into an almost meditative state.   
  
In his daydream, Abel imagines his new fighter, what he’d look like, how he’d smell, that they’re both kindred spirits seeking the same life-altering experience only the Alliance can offer.   
  
He’s got a good picture in his head now.   
  
So he snapshots the mental photograph and stores it for later.   
  
But Abel’s pretty sure what he’s dreamed up can’t compare to the real thing.   
  
Now all he needs is a name.   
  
How about—  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> * made up last name for abel’s family  
> ** asshole/dickhead  
> *** not for self, but country — unofficial u.s. navy motto
> 
> re-post from my [dreamwidth](https://sop.dreamwidth.org/1010.html#cutid1).
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/boysthighs) // [tumblr](http://boy-thighs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
